Forget Me Knot
by jmr27
Summary: "I don't know what you're talking about Bobby. Who is Sam?" That was when Bobby Singer knew that John Winchester had been hexed. Wee!chesters.
1. Something's Missing

**Forget Me Knot**

Set somewhere between "Bad Boys" (season 9) and "After School Special" (season 4). Sam is 13, Dean is 17

This story is based on the premise that John knew that demons wanted Sam ever since Sam was a baby, and keeping Sam away from the demons was John's primary motivation for hunting and moving as often as he did. This is NOT an AU.

 **1: Missing**

 _Pella, IA_

 _Something's missing_. The thought hit as soon as Dean opened his eyes, and he immediately closed them again. But banishing sight did not help banish the thought. With a sigh, Dean leaned over to look at the clock. 7:00 am. His alarm wouldn't sound for twenty more minutes.

Dean used to set it earlier. He had needed the extra time. Had to get his shower done to leave time for… Dean's thoughts trailed off, brought up short by a void he couldn't explain. He didn't know why he had felt the need to make sure there was time for another person to shower. Before, when Dad still hunted, he had stayed out late, slept in late, and showered when Dean was away at school.

It was just another little piece of Dean's memory that felt scattered, full of blanks. All of his memories of the time Before were like that. Before Dad stopped hunting. Back when things had been different.

Their entire routine had changed now, but Dean's muscle memory had yet to catch up. He still did things on reflex that only a hunter would do. Spill salt across the window sills. Keep a dream catcher above his bed. Get up early and ready to cram research and grave digging into a day already filled with school and…

There is was again. The something _more_ that Dean was supposed to do. He shook his head, but couldn't toss the thought away. There was something he needed to take care of. Only they didn't hunt anymore. He didn't have to read the newspaper to find people to save anymore.

That was it. That had to be it. Yet even as one part of Dean's mind supplied an explanation, another part threw it out. Dissatisfied. Angry. Anxious that Dean wasn't doing his job. The one job he had. It wasn't hunting. Saving people, killing things, that had been Dad's job.

But Dad had quit. John Winchester had woken up one day and decided that things would change.

 _Revenge won't bring your mother back. It's time you had the life she would have wanted for you_.

A few simple words, and suddenly their lives had changed. Dad found a new town, found a new job, and signed a lease on an apartment. They weren't renting month to month, they had signed for a full year. John and Dean Winchester were civilians again. Civilians who still went to the shooting range every weekend. Civilians who could still dig a grave faster than the cemetery grounds keeper.

Dad said things were better this way. They had lived in the same house for three whole months now. Dean had gone to the same school that whole time. He went to school on time every day. He did his homework. He had a curfew. He didn't have to help hunt. He didn't have to worry about saving other people. He didn't get dumped at a different babysitter every other month, or have to wait for weeks for Dad to come back.

Dean lingered a whole five minutes extra in the shower before deciding to use the rest of his morning to make a nice breakfast. Dad shuffled into the room to gather up his morning coffee and looked at the giant pile of eggs and hash in the skillet with a bleary eye.

"Hungry this morning? That's an awful lot of food, son."

He said it almost every day, because whenever Dean cooked, he made too much. As if he was expecting to feed a third hungry stomach. Dean just shrugged and doled out eggs and potatoes and quietly slipped the third, unneeded plate back into the cabinet.

He didn't know why he had gotten it out in the first place. They only needed two plates. It was just him and Dad.

o0o

 _John Winchester has settled down_. That was the word on the rumor mill. They didn't see each other often, but somehow, hunters always kept up with each other. They knew who was injured, who had passed, and who had retired.

 _I'll believe it when I see it_ , was all Bobby had to say. John Winchester would never retire, but Bobby was one of the few who knew why. He would never forget the night John had told him that a demon had tried to kidnap his child. As long as John thought demons were after Sam, he would never stop.

Someone must be running a nice betting pool, seeing how many people he could get to fall for that line. John Winchester, quit hunting?

 _When pigs fly_.

Although Bobby had to admit that he hadn't heard about a John Winchester kill in several months. Hunters liked to trade stories, and it hadn't taken long for the ex-marine to become a mini-legend. There wasn't a monster John Winchester feared. Black dogs, wendigos, shifters. John took down anything he could find. He had become _the person_ to call when you had a tough job.

Bobby had a line on a monster out in Oregon, nowhere near John's current stomping grounds. But moving had never troubled the other hunter before. The further he could travel, the less likely the demons could find Sam again. Or so he hoped.

John answered on the first ring.

"Hi, John. Changed your number again?"

"Bobby! Caleb was supposed to tell you."

"Yeah, he did." Bobby agreed. Hunters changed phone numbers as often as they changed their socks. There was a phone tree to keep everyone up to date. "Look, I got a hunt for you. There's something nasty up in the hills near Portland."

"Oregon?" He could hear the 'no' in John's tone already. "Sorry, Bobby. That's too far. Dean's in school right now, and he'd have to take a whole week off to get out there and back."

Bobby stood with the phone pressed to his ear, staring at his kitchen for a whole minute. The sky out the window as blue. The old tile flood was scuffed and coated in grime. Yes, the world was still there, still just the same has he had left it, and there were no signs of flying pigs.

Huh.

"You're saying no to a hunt to keep your boys in school?" Bobby had to say it out loud, just to make sure.

"It's how I do things now, Bobby."

"What about all the people this monster is killing?"

"Who else can you put on it?"

"I don't know anyone else who can handle something this nasty." It hadn't taken long for John to win a reputation as the hunter who could take down anything. "I mean, I guess I can call a few others." After all, hadn't he told John over and over to settle down and keep his boys in one school?

"I suppose I can leave Dean on his own for a few days. He's sure to throw a kegger, though."

"You and I both know Dean is not letting his friends get drunk with Sam in the house." Without Sam, there were many, many more things Dean would have gotten up to over the years. Taking care of the younger boy had always been the focus of Dean's life. Without Sam, Bobby didn't know who Dean would be.

"He's already tried twice." John's tone was amused. Bobby frowned. Something was wrong here, he just couldn't put his finger on _what_.

"So the rumors are true? You've settled down?"

"I have. I don't hunt anymore unless there is something in my territory."

Bobby took off his ball cap and scratched his head. "Why? I mean I'm not complaining Just wondering. What made you decide to stop? Did you get the demon that was after Sam?"

If John had managed to track down that demon, he would have called to boast to everyone. If John had found a way to kill a demon, he should have shared that information far and wide. But Bobby had heard nothing of the sort. Besides, he was still collecting data on demon sightings for John. Data that John hadn't asked to see in months.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Bobby. Who is Sam?"

o0o

 _Edina, MO_

The old house should have been condemned years ago. The only reason it hadn't been knocked down was that no one could decide who should pay for the work. It stood in the center of town, the fence overgrown with bushes, the windows draped in ivy. No one bothered looking in anymore, it was too much effort.

No one noticed the boy who slipped through the small gap that used to be an entrance gate. No one would have cared it they had. No one here knew Sam Winchester, and no one was looking for him.

No one at all.

Sam wiped a tear from his cheek and looked up at the old house. It would do. He had squatted before, when Dad didn't have cash for a motel or couldn't find one he liked. The floor was sagging, but not rotted out yet. The roof was leaky, but there were no big holes. It would shelter him from the worst if a storm passed through, and on the cusp of October, storms were still a likely possibility.

A growl sounded from his stomach, angry and insistent. Sam set a blue box out on the counter. Macaroni and cheese. His favorite meal. Well, not really. More like the only meal. The only meal Dean could afford when Dad was running late. The only meal they ate day after day for a week at a time. Dean tried his best to spice it up. He added all sorts of things to make it interesting.

Still, Sam had learned to hate macaroni and cheese. They had it too often, and it only reminded him of what they didn't have. Enough money for real food. A parent who knew how to cook. A real kitchen that could do more that boil a pot of water.

He had never thought he would enjoy the taste of it again, but today, Sam wanted nothing more. He found a match and tried the stove. A small blue flame ignited in the burner. Whoever owned this place hadn't bothered to shut down the power bill yet.

Good. Sam filled a pot with water and placed it on the stove, watching until little bubbles formed on the surface. He squinted at the directions in the dim light. Whoever forgot to shut off the gas hadn't forgot to shut off the electricity. Boil. Pour. Wait. Mix. It sounded easy.

Sam dumped the contents of the box into the pot. Water sloshed out, hissing as it landed on the hot stovetop. Sam jumped back, then realized he'd forgotten to remove the cheese packet and went fishing for it. He set the soggy thing on the counter and sucked on his burnt fingers. But the noodles were boiling at least. Sam hummed a song to mark time, then another until ten minutes had passed and he pulled the pot off the stove.

Sam held the hot pot over the sink and frowned. He hadn't thought this through. That seemed to be true of everything he tried lately. There was no colander, and somehow he had to separate the hot water from the hot noodles without touching either. Sam held the edge of the pot to the sink wall and tried to drain the water that way, but half the noodles spilled out and a puddle of water still remained in the bottom of the pot.

His stomach growled again. Well, he had lost half of the noodles, but he only ever ate half of the box, right? There should be enough. Sam dumped the sauce packet over the pasta and stirred it all together with the plastic fork he had stolen from the gas station where he bought the boxed meal. The result was a lumpy, sticky mess that didn't taste anything like the macaroni and cheese Dean made.

He only ate half the contents of the pot before Sam pushed it away. He curled up on the floor, elbows on his knees, face buried in his arms.

 _I want my brother!_ The thought ached, but the next one was worse. The next one filled Sam with a sense of dread. _I don't know where to find him_.

He had gone back to the motel where he last saw Dad and Dean, but someone else was there now. He had tried the phone number, but only got a disconnect notice. They were gone. _Gone_.

And Sam didn't even know where to start looking.

* * *

 **Note:** What do you think? Interested in reading more? Please let me know in the reviews!


	2. Lost

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed the first chapter, thank you KeepTrucking, Shazza19, Kathy, carrie4262, VirchowsTriadDuet, MicheleChadwick, VegasGranny, AmaraRae, MarbleWolf and Peril2. I hope that you will enjoy this next chapter.**

 **2: Lost**

"Bobby, you don't understand what I'm saying!" John was not a man to hide his temper, and the full force of his anger was evident in his tone. "I would not forget if I had another son. Dean is the most important thing in my life. I could not forget him. If I didn't have Dean, I'd be a different man."

"Yer not listening to me, John!" Bobby didn't hold back either, and John could hear the slap of Bobby's ball cap against the desk as he took out his frustration. "Use your head! Or has all that time off addled your brain? Which makes more sense? That some witch or somethin' hexed _me_ and made me think you had another kid? What good would that do?"

"I couldn't forget my own son." John held fast to the one thing about this crazy conversation he knew to be true.

"So explain to me," Bobby's words were slow, and John wasn't sure if he was holding back his impatience or simply trying to work through the puzzle himself. "Why did you decide to stop hunting?"

John paused. He had asked himself the same question in reverse over and over these past few months. Why did I hunt for so long? Why would I pull my child into this life? "There didn't seem to be a reason anymore," John said. "Revenge didn't seem like a good inheritance for my son."

"Revenge ain't the only game in town," Bobby replied. "You had a different reason for hunting, John, and you lost it when you lost Sam."

Sam. Bobby leaned into the word as if it should mean something. It meant nothing special to John no matter how many times he heard it.

"Sam," he repeated. "Mary's father was named Samuel." The dots connected reluctantly, and John's head began to ache. As if something inside protested. As if something inside didn't want him to know.

Bobby let out an exasperated growl. "I'm comin' down there and we're going to get to the bottom of this. You trying putting your thinking cap on and see if you can figure out where this all started."

The line went dead. John set the phone down slowly and looked around the small apartment. It wasn't anything special. Not very big and not in the best part of town, it was still a significant a step up from the roach-infested motels he and Dean often stayed at. What was more important, John had taken steps to make this place feel like a home. Tangible signs to let Dean know that they belonged in this place, that it belonged to them, that it was home.

All of the furniture was second hand, but John had chosen a cozy color scheme, doing his best to make it all match. He had even sprung for a quilt and a few throw pillows to 'tie it all together' as the retail clerk suggested. Of course there were the Winchesters touches as well. An AC/DC poster hung on the wall, Dean's choice, and a photograph of Mary stood framed on the coffee table.

John had made a silent promise to her when he moved into this place. He would stop drinking so much. He would stop spending so much time away from his son. He would build a real life for them, the life Dean should have had from the start.

Dean. His only son.

The frame came apart easily in John's hands. Underneath Mary he had stored a few other photos. In one, John sat on the Impala's hood with his arm around Dean and another boy. Just a playmate Dean had met on the road, John had thought. Now, he wasn't so sure. The boy had Mary's smile.

 _I could not forget my own son_. John was sure of this fact. Certain. The single most important thing in his life was his son.

He glared at the phone, Bobby's words ringing in his ears. What would be the point of making a hunter imagine a child existed? Not much. What would be the point of making a hunter forget his son?

John's blood ran cold at the thought. If someone made him forget Dean, and _took_ Dean… John picked up the handset again and dialed another familiar number.

"Hi, Jim."

"John! Always good to hear from you. How are you and the boys?"

The boys. Plural. "I've got a question to ask you, Jim. Might seem a bit strange. How many sons do I have?"

An hour later, John finally set the phone down for the last time. He had called every number he knew, spoken with every hunter he could name. They all said the same thing. John Winchester had two sons.

John ran his hands through his hair and finally stopped to look around the apartment. It was dark, quiet, empty. Dean hadn't come home from school yet, and John remembered vaguely being told of a party. The clock on the wall glowed, only eight o'clock. Still two hours away from Dean's curfew. It was far too early to go scare a gathering of half-drunk teens. Far too early to drag his son home by the ear.

It didn't matter. John shrugged into his coat and grabbed his keys. He fired up the Impala's engine, grateful for her heavy frame and strong speed. He could take on the world in this car.

Right now, he had only one thought. _I need to find my son_.

o0o

Dean had always been most comfortable at night. Most people feared the night. Even those who didn't believe in monsters thought the darkness was dangerous, but it had never frightened Dean. He knew how to use shotgun, machete and salt to keep the danger at bay and keep himself safe. As safe as possible anyway. Safe was an illusion, never fully reliable. Day or night, bad things could happen. Dean was ready to handle whatever trouble came his way even now that they had stopped hunting. The night was no more threatening than the day.

It was more interesting. The world came alive at night. Day was slow and plodding, bogged down by work or school. Night was when people lowered their inhibitions, lowered their expectations, and truly let themselves live. Nightlife was the word for it, and the night life was the good life.

Whether he was busy winning at poker or beer pong, making out with a girl, or just enjoying the music, everything else faded away. When they were hunters, the nightlife had been his refuge. Now that they were retired, it was his distraction. It filled up that strange sense of something missing, and for a few hours Dean could forget whatever it was he didn't know he was looking for.

Tonight promised to be no exception. It was Friday and Riley Stevens' parents were out of town. Josh Huckins had an older brother who had a valid booze purchasing ID, so there was a decent supply of the good stuff. The local garage band, which had aspirations at making real money out of their art someday, were setting up in the living room. To top it all off, Dean had spotted a girl who he knew didn't have a boyfriend. Yet.

All of the ingredients for a perfect evening.

Dean was halfway to the kitchen, where the keg had just been tapped, when the sight of a tousled head of brown hair stopped him short. It was a kid, no more than ten years old, with an expression set to whine.

Riley Stevens did not look happy to see his little brother had left the designated little brother stay out of my way space upstairs. He made a shooting motion. Little brother shook his head, stamped his foot, and invoked the tattle tale threat. Riley face turned red as the circle of friends around him booted with laughter, but an ice cream sandwich and the handover of a game boy sent little brother away satisfied.

"Hey, Winchester, you want some of this?" Josh called.

Dean pulled his gaze away from the stairs where the kid had vanished with his treats. For a moment, the world had felt...incomplete. Something tearing at the edges, warning him something was wrong. His thoughts froze, stuck against a wall that refused to budge. Like when he had too much to drink and couldn't recall last night's events, Dean felt there was something missing. Something he should know that he had forgotten.

But what did that have to do with Riley's little brother?

"No. Do you know how much community service you'll be stuck with if you get caught with that?" Before, Dean would not have cared. Before, they wouldn't have been in town long enough to go to trial, much less log any service hours. When they moved into the new apartment, Dad had gone over the entire local rule book with Dean and made it clear that he who got caught paid his dues.

"Do you care?" Josh shot back. It hadn't taken long for one con artist to spot another. Josh had Dean pegged the first time he saw him.

Dean took the cup of beer Josh offered and lifted the glass in toast before taking a long drink. If this party got busted, Dean was pretty sure that he could run faster than anyone else present. He hadn't been retired from hunting long enough to go that soft.

He turned to survey the room again. A cluster had formed around the coffee table, where one kid was raking in the cash with a series of card tricks.

Tricks. Ha! Time to teach the small town show off the beauty of poker. Dean grabbed a few cups of beer for his opponents and sauntered over with a smile on his face.

"Parent alert!" The call went up from the doorway. Dean hastily shoved the beer cups away and pulled out a stick of gum. No evidence on his breath meant no arrest.

"No way!" Riley bolted to the window. "My parents are gone until Sunday." A crowd gathered around him, trying to see who was coming up the drive.

"Not your parents, man! I don't know who-"

"Dude, he looks pissed!"

"Someone is in trouble!"

The door rattled as a fist pounded on the wood, then pushed open without waiting for an answer. A man with dark hair, a trim beard, and fire in his eyes stepped through. Everyone in the living room took a step back.

"Dad!" Dean bolted to his feet. He checked the time: barely eight thirty, hours before curfew. The look on Dad's face said this was about more than a being home on time. Dad looked wary, as if something had spooked him.

It was not easy to spook John Winchester.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked.

John strode across the room and rested a hand on Dean's shoulder. He drew in a deep breath of relief, which somehow scared Dean even more.

"It's time to go home."

"Yes, sir." His father's tone of voice ignited the old hunting reflexes, and Dean moved to follow the order without a second thought.

The crowd of teenagers stared, wide-eyed and gaping. This would be all over school on Monday. Who knew what wild theories they would devise tonight on why Dean Winchester was being hauled home early.

Dean turned to favor the room with one last grin and a wink. "Well, it was fun while it lasted. You guys might wanna go clean up the kitchen."

Riley and Josh shared a look, then bolted toward the keg and the line of cups sitting out, filled with evidence.

John marched Dean to the car, his hand never leaving his son's shoulder until Dean was settled in his seat. John climbed in the driver's seat and paused for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel tight, and gave Dean one last look. As if to reassure himself that his son was still there.

"Dad?" Dean's tone was cautious. "What's wrong?"

"Uncle Bobby says there's trouble in town, and I want you home until we sort it out."

o0o

Sam woke to the sound of a car door slamming. He shifted, dislodging the old sleeping bag he had found abandoned near the local tent city. Cast off even by the homeless, it smelled like cigarettes and pee and was shot through with holes, but it had kept him warm. His eyes were bleary and full of grit, and his stomach still grumbled, having been less-than-satisfied the evening before.

The world looked slightly better in the morning light. Night was always a dark, unhappy time when dark, unhappy things happened. Night was when Dad was gone on hunts. Night was when Sam sat waiting up, wondering if Dad would come back. Night was when Dean got angry and frustrated, wishing he could go out with the other kids instead of being stuck watching his kid brother.

Morning changed everything. The world was brighter, the way forward was visible, and people were often friendlier. After they had had their coffee.

Coffee. Sam rubbed his grumbling stomach. He was almost out of cash and didn't know how to get more. No one was going to hire a twelve-year-old, and if he tried begging he would get picked up and sent to social services. They would put him with a family that would provide a warm house and adequate food. But that was all they would provide, Sam had learned. They weren't a real family, weren't his family.

They weren't willing to rob the house down the street to make sure he had something to unwrap on Christmas morning. They didn't check on him in his bed after a long night on the job, no matter how late they came in or how beat up they were. They didn't know what to say to help him feel better when the kids at school rejected him. They didn't know how to make him feel safe simply by being present.

Footsteps clattered on the walkway outside. Sam started and scrambled to the window to peer out. Was the owner of this old shack finally coming home, or did he have competition for the space?

"Sam!" The voice was warm, cheery, hopeful. It belonged to a woman in gray slacks and a colorful top with a relentlessly professional expression. It didn't matter whether or not she wanted to be tromping around an abandoned house at seven am, it was the job and she was going to do it with a smile on her face.

Dean's smile was never professional, never appropriate. It was always 100% real. Dad's smile was sometimes forced, only because it masked deep wounds that would never heal, but it always meant far more than he could say with words.

The social worker's smile said she had a job to do, and she was going to get it done. She would come back with Sam Winchester in tow one way or the other.

 _Uh-oh_. Sam ducked below the window, mind churning.

 _How did she find me_? The foster family Sam had ditched had been in Moberly, a good half-hour drive away. Yet here she was, calling out his name as if she knew he was here. Apparently, someone was watching what happened in this old house.

Things like this never happened when Dad picked a place for them to squat.

He could stand up, show himself, and get in the car with the nice lady. Sam's stomach roared in agreement with this idea.

Sam closed his eyes, remembering all of the reasons he had left the foster home, and shook his head. _No_. Not going back. Sam tucked himself down as small as he could make himself and crawled along the edge of the wall so he would not be visible from the windows. The door handle turned. He wasn't going to get out that way, and Sam already knew that the back door was stuck. Dean might have been able to bust through it, but Sam didn't have time to try.

The best escape window was in the kitchen. The social worker couldn't see it when she pushed through the creaking front door, and the screen had fallen out long ago. Sam scrambled over the remains of last night's macaroni and cheese sitting in the sink. The glorious mess a glorious reminder of everything he had managed to screw up these past few months. The dry, crusted noodles lay in a miserable pile, taunting him.

Sam shoved the pot aside and clambered onto the counter to access the window. It slid open with a squeak.

"Sam?" The social worker's voice was cautiously optimistic as she moved slowly through the house. Sam heard the crinkle of a paper bag and smelled ham, eggs, and cheese. His mouth watered. "I brought some breakfast for us. Maybe we could have a talk while we eat?"

 _No_. Sam shook his head and turned to the window. If he was going to be miserable, then he would be miserable alone. On his own terms. In the places that felt most familiar. In the places where he could hide.

He wasn't going back. He swung one leg out the window, then the other. There were bushes beneath him, but Sam didn't care. He plunged feet-first into the brambles. Thorns tore through his clothes, scratching his skin as he fought his way through. What were a few scratches when he had helped stitch up the jagged cuts left by in long claws?

A blue light flashed above the hedge that had overgrown the fence surrounding the house. Sam froze and dropped to the ground again. The social worker had brought back-up. If her friendly smile and bribe of food didn't work, there were others waiting to swoop in and haul him back whether Sam wanted to go or not.

Sam snorted. No cop was going to make him do anything he didn't want to. No cop had been to John Winchester's school of monster slaying. Sam picked up a branch and tossed it at the fence. Both cops' heads swung around at the sound. Oldest trick in the book, but it still worked every time.

Sam seized his moment to dart through the opening and around the corner. Treading softly so no one would hear him. Dad had taught him so many things. Dad would have had a way out of this mess. This stupid, terrible mess that was all Sam's fault. But now Dad was gone and Dean with him, and there was no one left to clean up after Sam.

 _I can't do this on my own_. It was only a matter of time before Sam landed himself in trouble again. It was only a matter of time before someone far worse than the social worker found him.

Foster families couldn't help him, but Sam knew someone who could. He should have called ages ago when the trouble first started, but he'd still had hope then. Hope that things could get better. Hope that this rotten plan might work out somehow. But that hope was gone, dried up and left behind in the abandoned house, in the foster family's hurtful words, in the social workers office and all the horrible things that had happened before that.

Sam knew the number. Dad had drilled him until he couldn't forget even if he tried. Bobby. Pastor Jim. Caleb. John Winchester had made sure that if anything happened to him, his boys would have a place to go. Sam had thought it an excuse before, something to make his father feel better about abandoning his sons on a regular basis to chase disaster. Now, he felt a warm surge of gratitude as he dropped a quarter into the pay phone and dialed the number. Dad might not be here, but he was still taking care of his son. He had provided Sam with what he needed to get himself out of this mess. If there was a way out at all.

Sam listened anxiously as the phone began to ring. _Please, Uncle Bobby, be home!_

o0o

 _Escaped_. The witch glowered at the corpse at her feet. Blood still slowly trickled out of his mouth to puddle on his blue uniform. Useless. The man had known nothing. Nothing that would help her find out where the runaway was likely to go next. No way to track him.

She reached down and plucked the hex-bag out of his pocket where she had slipped it when the man started to babble about 'confidentiality' and how he couldn't release information about a missing child. Choking on his own bile had made him more talkative, but it hadn't earned her any useful information.

No matter. The boy had left everything that she would need. Manicured fingernails plucked a strand of hair from the folds of the sleeping bag. Not much, but it would do. People left bits of themselves all over without realizing it. Without realizing what a witch could do with them.

In times long gone, people had been more careful, back when the world had believed in magic and been properly scared of her kind. These days, no one believed. No one but the filthy hunters who chased them down without mercy. They came and killed without any thought to what they left behind. The family of the dead. Bits of themselves.

She smiled and wrapped the hair in a tissue. What they left behind could be their undoing.

 **I'd love a review!**


	3. Breadcrumbs

**Thank you SallyBraden, VegasGranny, Hacked It Out and Fell, MarbleWolf, Kathy, and a guest for your reviews. I hope you will enjoy the next installment.**

 **Remember, this story is set back in the 90's. Before cell phones. No one has one yet. Remember the days when you couldn't get a hold of someone until they went home and checked their messages? How many story plots of decades past simply no longer work in an era where we carry phones in our pockets? This story is one.**

 **3: Breadcrumbs**

 _I'm away on a hunting trip and I won't be home for a few days. Leave a message at the beep._

 _Bobby! Hi. This is Sam. I—uh—do you think you're gonna be home soon? I really need some help. Dad and Dean got into a bit of a mess and—I guess I'll try again when I get to town. See you soon Bobby!_

o0o

There was something about the small hours of the night that always made it hard to sleep. It hadn't always been like this. As a child and a teen John Winchester had been able to drop into bed, close his eyes, and become oblivious of the world until the sun rose. These days, when the sun was furthest away was also the time sleep was hardest to find.

It had started in the war. Stumbling through the humid forests of Vietnam, the small hours had been the time of predators. The time when a tiger's cry would cut through the darkness. The time when the enemy would sneak into camp to do his worst. The time when John's own team would sneak up on the unsuspecting Vietcong. At first John had a hard time keeping his eyes open.

By the time he left that place, he had a hard time keeping his eyes closed. Even ten years later, with a home and a wife and a child, he could barely sleep through the small hours of the night. That was why he had been downstairs, zoned out to the sound of the TV, instead of up in their bedroom when it happened.

He still could not sleep through this hour. This hour when everything had changed.

If he had been in bed, would he have been there when that thing entered his house? If he had been with his wife, she might not have died. What had drawn her into the old nursery, the room that they had never dismantled after Dean's birth in hopes of a second child?

John's memory stuttered, the images of Mary's face trapped in the fire blotted out by something else. The hope of a second child, or the reality of a second child? John cradled his head in his hands. It felt like that white static from the TV filled his mind.

His mind was strong. He had face djinn, he had faced witches, he had faced snakelike monsters with hypnotic power's. John Winchester was not a man who could be manipulated. He was not a man who could be made to forget.

It made no sense, none of it. Yet his mind was trapped, running in circles that explained away Bobby's assertion, and then found reasons to believe it again.

 _Stop!_ John rose from the bed to pace down the hall, an effort to quiet his mind by moving his legs. Nothing was ever resolved in this 'witching hour' as it was called. It was only a time when the mind chased itself in endless circles of regret and fear. Unless he had a gun in hand, unless he had a monster to kill. Yes, that was why he had carried on his relentless quest for revenge for so long. It was the one thing that gave him peace, that allowed him to close his eyes and truly sleep.

John paused at Dean's bedroom door and peered through the crack. His son was out cold, untroubled by the worries that kept his father up. Good. That was part of the reason they were here, the reason John had decided to stop hunting. To keep Dean free.

John paced out to the living room and settled on the couch. He propped his feet up on the coffee table when something caught his attention. The corner of a book stuck out from the bottom shelf of the coffee table. Once colorful, it had faded with age, the pages creased and stained from much use. _Green Eggs and Ham_ had never been one of Dean's favorites. Yet John could remember the boy reading it out loud over and over again, seeming annoyed as he did so. Why would a boy read and re-read a book he didn't care for?

John opened the book and saw the letters S-A-M scrawled across the front page in blue crayon. Before today, he would have thought nothing of it. It was an old book, they had bought it second-hand. The boy who used to own it could have put his name there.

There were so many small things in their lives that didn't quite fit right. Each was easy to explain away on its own. A friend Dean had found to play with wound up in an old photograph. A book bought second-hand had another child's name in it. The small socks that John had found mixed in with the pair at the bottom of his duffle bag. The half-sized shotgun still in the trunk that Dean had outgrown long ago. Alone, each could be explained away. Together, they formed a trail of breadcrumbs, clues that John should haven noticed. Should have seen.

John sat up for the rest of the night, alone in the darkness, waiting for morning when Bobby would arrive with some answers.

o0o

Dean knew that Dad hadn't slept as soon as he entered the living room. John Winchester was on the couch, back hunched, bowed over an old children's book. Dean paused in the doorway. This wasn't how Saturday mornings usually started.

Usually, Dad fried up a big skillet of sausage, hash browns, and eggs. They hashed out their plans for the day over breakfast. Dean usually won permission to do something with his friends after promising to complete a series of chores. Often, that involved working with Dad on the Impala. Which Dean didn't mind one bit.

Even during the time before, when Dad was gone for a long, long time on hunts and Dean was left with—whoever Dad could find, working on the Impala had been a bright spot. It had been the one 'normal' thing they did, a father and son bonding on their day off over the engine of a car.

It was still the best thing they did. Dean had noticed a slight whine in the engine last night, and he thought Dad might show him what was wrong with her today.

Until he saw his father cradling a ratty old book with dark circles under his eyes. _Uncle Bobby says there's trouble in town._ Dad had been awfully worried last night, worried enough to pull Dean out of a perfectly lame party with barely enough beer to get buzzed, much less drunk, two hours before curfew _._ There was a hunt in the area. Ok. What did that have to do with Dr. Seuss?

"Dean." Dad looked up, as if surprised to see him. He held up the old book. "Why do you have this book? I understand holding on to a keepsake, but you never liked this book that much."

Dean frowned. "Sure I-" _Sure I did._ But he couldn't say it, because it wasn't true. His favorite book had been _Where the Wild Things Are_ , but he hadn't bothered to tote that one around in his duffle from town to town. He had outgrown it years ago and left it behind to make room for other things.

Why keep this one? Dean shrugged. "I dunno. I used to read it a lot."

"Yes. I remember. Why? Why did you read it so often if you didn't like it?"

Dean could feel his mind searching, sorting, sifting through memories that would make this make sense, but they were all blank. It was as if the static that filled the TV when the signal was bad had entered his brain, scrubbing out the picture and the information that belonged with it.

"I don't know." That was odd. Shouldn't he know? You were supposed to forget things from your childhood. Memories grew fuzzy with time. But not like this.

"So you wouldn't care if I threw it away?" John held the book over the waste paper basket, but Dean leaped forward and snatched it from his hands.

"No. You can't do that."

"Why not?" John watched Dean carefully, his eye narrowed as if peering into the dark night to catch sight of the monster of the week somewhere in the shadows.

Why not? It was a reasonable question. A question that should have a simple answer. But when Dean searched for the reason, he found nothing but an ache he could not explain. The sickening feeling that _something is missing_ got worse with every question Dad asked.

"It's important to me, ok?" Dean's fingers curled tightly around the cover, refusing to let go. "I can't explain why. It just is."

"Look inside the cover."

Dean obligingly flipped the front open and John pointed to the name scrawled in crayon there. S-A-M.

"Dean, does this mean anything to you?"

The three letters scrawled in crayon twisted through his thoughts, waiting for recognition. "No." Dean shook his head. The name meant nothing. But his stomach rebelled, turning sour as if it knew something Dean's mind did not.

 _Bobby says there's trouble in town_. Dean had assumed it meant a hunt. A vengeful spirit or something like it out in a different neighborhood, affecting other people. Yet trouble was right here, somehow attached to a Dr. Seuss book, though Dean had no idea why.

"Dad, what's going on? Is there a curse on that thing?" Could a book make people sick?

"I think we've been hexed," John said. "It's affecting me too."

Dean exhaled slowly and felt his stomach calm down. It was a hunt. Just another hunt. He knew how to handle this. Being retired didn't make all the monsters in the world suddenly go away.

"What kind of hex? How do we stop it?" Dean fished for the lighter in his pocket. He had never let it go, even though there hadn't been cause to light a fire for months now. The familiar weight of it had been comforting to keep in his pocket. Now, it slipped into his hands like an old friend. Ready to ignite, purify, and banish whatever had invaded his mind.

Burn the book, end the spell, right?

John shook his head at the sight of Dean's lighter. "I'm sorry, son. The hex isn't on the book. I don't know what it's attached to."

"Oh. Ok." Dean pocketed the lighter and looked toward the empty kitchen, suddenly hungry. The cold stove, the empty coffee pot, were evidence of how worried Dad was. A reminder of how things were before, when Dean cooked while Dad slept in because he hadn't come home until the small hours of the night. It hadn't seemed so bad to him then, when he didn't know any better. They had only been here for three months. But those three months had been full of things that Dean did not want to lose.

Like Saturday morning breakfast.

Dean handed the book back to his father. "I'm hungry, Dad. Do you want something?"

"Breakfast. Right." John set the book and all of the memories it represented aside and stepped up to the stove. Soon the skillet with sizzling with spicy, greasy goodness and the coffee pot sent a most welcome aroma through the room.

Dean went to the cabinet to get dishes and set the table. He pulled down three bowls and three sets of silverware and laid them out before he realized his mistake. With a sigh, Dean went to collect the last bowl and put it back.

Did the mystery of the third bowl have something to do with the hex?

No. How could it?

"Leave it." Dad's voice was husky, and he gripped Dean's shoulder tightly for a moment. "Bobby's on his way. He might want something."

"Ok." Dean set the bowl down again, but something in his father's tone told him that having a plate for Bobby was only an afterthought. His stomach flipped. "Dad, what's the hex? I mean, what did it do to us?"

"It made us forget." John's tone was heavy, disbelieving and defeated at the same time. "I called everyone we know. They all agree."

A hunt always started with research. Lots of research. But before that there was usually death or someone gone missing. Dean frowned. No one was missing here.

"Dean, you have a brother," Dad continued. "A brother named Sam."

The empty bowl stared at Dean from the third space at the table. The third space they didn't need, but that Dean had insisted they have. For a friend. Or a girlfriend.

Or a brother.

 _Sam_. The name still meant nothing. There was no image of a familiar face or a presence that came to mind at the sound of it. Only the sense of _something missing_ that had haunted Dean for months now.

Something moved in Dean's stomach. A sour taste rose in his throat. Dean bolted from the table, dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, and threw up.

There was no need to ask Dad to repeat the words or argue that he had to be wrong. His body knew, even if his mind didn't. Something was missing.

 _I have a brother_.

o0o

 _Hello. You have reached Agent Willis with the FBI. I am away from my desk and unable to take your call at this time. Please leave a message at the tone. Unless you're calling to ask a stupid question, like asking if my field agent has the authority to make you do whatever it is they want you to do. They're FBI. They outrank you. Do it. Willis out._

 _Wow! Dad said to use this number if we ever got in trouble with the cops but...Wow! What happens if the real FBI finds out you're doing that? Oh, this is Sam. I made it to Sioux Falls, but I guess you're not home. So...I'll try again later._

Sam leaned back against the glass wall of the phone booth and looked out at the truck stop that marked the edge of town. He had made it. One train and two trucks later, he was free of Missouri and finally in a place where someone might know him. Might help him.

Only that someone wasn't home.

Sam pressed his forehead to the glass and closed his eyes. He was tired, more tired than he had ever felt before, even when Dad took him along on an overnight hunt. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in a place he knew was safe. Sam scrubbed his sleeve across his eyes and exited the phone booth.

A safe place. He knew of one, and it wasn't far away. Even if the old hunter was gone, his home was still there. Maybe there was food in the fridge. Maybe he could get a good night's sleep before moving on. Bobby wouldn't mind.

The hair on the nape of his neck prickled, as if someone was watching him. Sam turned, but he couldn't spot a lurker, didn't see anyone hastily look away. There was no one here.

o0o

There was no need to hurry. It would take the boy time to travel, and she wanted him to reach his destination before she tried to follow. If she tracked him too soon, he would still be on the move, and she would arrive too late. If she waited, he would think himself safe, and all she had to do was catch up.

The witch smiled and tucked her scrying crystal away in her pocket next to the bit of hair. The images were hazy, but she had seen enough. The boy had left the highway and gone into town.

It was time to follow.

 **What will Dean do with the knowledge that he has a brother? Who will find Sam first? What does the witch want?**

 **Please review!**


	4. Back to the Beginning

**A huge Thank You to everyone who left a review! Thanks to KeepTrucking, beckini, Kathy, Jenmm31, carrie4262, Colby's girl, Rozzy07, and Redlite. Reviews are what keep me writing.**

 **I hope you will enjoy the next installment.**

 **4: Back to the Beginning**

"Well, this is cozy." Bobby stared around the small apartment. He had known that things were different in the Winchester household, what with the 'no hunting' thing, but he hadn't expected this. Matching throw pillows decorated the couch. A colorful quilt was tossed over the back of the armchair. There was even a potted plant in the corner, drinking in the morning sun.

John Winchester stood in the kitchen wearing an apron covered in yellow daisies. He was washing the dishes while Dean nursed a bottle of clear soda.

"Bobby! Pull up a chair and have some breakfast. I wasn't expecting you for a few more hours. Did you drive through the night?"

"What, do I look like Chicken Little?" Bobby wasn't known to panic lightly. "Whether you believe me or not, there really is a child missing. Likely kidnapped. You know as well as I do what the survival rate is for that."

"I know, Bobby." John's tone was serious as he stripped off his rubber gloves and set the apron aside. "And I believe you about Sam."

"Do you?" Bobby eyed the other man warily. This was not the John Winchester he knew, and it had nothing to do with the yellow daisies. The other man had been dogged by a panicked paranoia ever since Bobby met him. A panicked paranoia brought on by the absolute conviction that demons wanted Sam.

No Sam left John with no demonic conspiracy theory, and therefore no reason to rush into danger. Believing and remembering weren't the same thing.

"It makes sense. There's no reason to make you remember a child and every reason to make me forget. Also, I found this." John set a battered copy of _Green Eggs and Ham_ in front of Bobby, next to a bowl of steaming breakfast skillet mix.

Something caught in Bobby's throat at the sight of the book—Sam's favorite. Bobby had nearly memorized it just from hearing Dean read it to him over and over again.

 _We don't even know how long he's been gone_. Missing children were rarely recovered alive after the first forty-eight hours, and Bobby had a feeling that window had closed a long time ago.

Low probability of success didn't mean Bobby would give up, not until he found some answers. John might have forgotten the boy, but those puppy eyes that could melt even his crusty old heart would forever haunt him if he didn't give this hunt his all.

Bobby's stomach grumbled, drawing his attention back to the bowl John had set in front of him. It would do no one any good to hunt on an empty stomach. He picked up his fork and dug in, eyes lighting up in pleasant surprise. Since when did John Winchester know how to cook?

"You used to be a very different man," Bobby said around a full mouth. The last time he had dined with the Winchesters, they had eaten out of date MREs and stale beer.

"Is that so?" John settled next to him with a cup of coffee, a determined look in his eye. There, that was the John Winchester that Bobby knew. "I don't like the idea that someone has meddled with my memory."

 _I don't like_ meaning _I will kill whoever did this_.

"They messed with both of us," Dean said. He shoved his soda aside, finally looking up at Bobby. "How can this even happen?"

"Too many ways," Bobby said with a grimace. "I did a bit of research before I left, and I haven't got a clue where to start. The right kind of vengeful spirit could pull something like this off, steal a child that looks like one it knew in life and alter the memory of the family. It could be a hex cast by a witch. It could be a flesh-and-blood critter that makes the family of its dinner forget what it took, to avoid being hunted down."

"Dinner?" Dean was looking green.

John's face grew dark, but he pressed a hand to the back of Dean's neck and asked, "You gonna hurl again, son?"

Dean shook his head but took another sip of soda. "You think someone ate my brother?" His voice was a whisper, his eyes haunted.

"It's a possibility."

Dean's face grew greener.

"We have to consider every possibility," John said. "We have to think about this logically. If we forgot this boy—Sam—did he forget us?"

"It's a possibility," Bobby said again. "We can't start by figuring out _what_ did this, but if we can figure out _where_ it happened, we can try to pick up the trail from there."

"How long has it been since you last knew my brother was with us?" Dean asked.

"About six months," Bobby said.

"I talked to Jim," John said. "I took the boys by his place about five months ago."

Maybe John Winchester hadn't changed that much after all. "Talk to anyone else?"

"No one who saw or heard of Sam less than four months ago."

"That narrows it down a lot!" Dean brightened. "We came here three months ago." He frowned. "After the last time we saw Pastor Jim, we hit a lot of hunts in a row because school was out for the summer. We had to have been in five different cities."

"Including every pit stop we made in between," John added grimly. "That's a lot of ground to cover. At least six states."

"Answer me this, John. When did you decide to stop hunting?"

Both Winchesters fell silent for a moment, digesting the question. Dean's brows furrowed, as if trying to determine why this would be important.

"A cursed necklace was the last hunt I took. It was in Indiana. Quick job, pretty simple once I found the object. Got it stored in a unit that'll be hard for anyone to get into. After that, I came here to answer an ad for a job."

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "That was your last job. Was that when you decided to stop?"

"No," Dean said. "Dad was talking about it for about a week before that. Ever since we took out that witch in Missouri." He paused, then added with a shiver, "Everything started feeling different the day we burned her spell books."

"A witch. Now that would do it," Bobby breathed. The kind of witch that ate children for dinner right away? Or the kind that kept them around for a nice, slow revenge? He would never wish that on Sam, but he would rather find the boy alive than dead. "Where was that."

"A tiny town in Missouri called Edina." John took Bobby's bowl to wash and place in the drying rack. "Alright. Dean, time to pack."

Something in Dean's spine went rigid, and he nodded. "Yes, sir."

o0o

Leaving on a hunt. Dean had done this a thousand times before. Pack his bag, make sure his gun was accessible on top. Say good-bye to anyone he cared to say good-bye to. Then, forget about this place because they would never come back.

That was how it used to be. Before they retired.

 _Before we lost my brother_. Dean paused, taking in the thought. Bobby hadn't said it outright, but his strategy for finding the missing boy was based on one assumption: that losing Sam and John's decision to stop hunting had happened at the same time. Dad hadn't pushed for answers yet. Bobby could explain on the way.

It was true to form, a classic John Winchester move. Act first, explain later. They had spent so much time sloughing off the old habits, but none had been forgotten. Father and son picked up their old routine again without missing a beat, moving around each other in a coordinated rhythm to ensure everything they would need was ready to go.

Dean zipped up his bag and looked around his room one last time. He paused with his and on the doorknob, unable to shake the thought that once he shut the door, he wouldn't be able to come back.

"It's just one hunt, son." John's hand landed on Dean's shoulder, reassuring and warm. "We'll be back as soon as we can. I'd rather not bring you into this, but I don't see another way."

"Yes, sir." Dean had been learning to back-up his father in a fight since he was five. Going on a hunt didn't worry him. Usually. Usually, he didn't have a giant hole in his memory. He kept trying to picture his lost brother, but kept coming up blank. It chilled him more than the thought of a vengeful spirit on the prowl.

A piece of himself was missing, and he didn't know if he could get it back.

"I don't want to loose you." John's hand tightened on Dean's shoulder and he moved to face his son. "Which is why we're going to do things a little differently this time. I want you with an adult at all times Dean."

"What? Dad! I'm sixteen! I know how to take care of myself." _No babysitters needed_.

"I wouldn't have done my job right if I thought you couldn't. But we don't know what we're facing here. All we know is, if things go wrong then you could be gone and Bobby and I wouldn't know to look for you."

"What? You think this thing might take me?"

"We're going back to the place where it already took one boy. We don't know why it targeted us. We can't know what to expect." Prepare for the worst, another John Winchester motto. "You need to be careful."

"Same goes for you!" Dean said. "What if you go off on your own and something gets you, and I don't even know to look for you? No."

John frowned, and Dean could see the wheel's turning in his father's head. A strategy was forming. "This thing didn't take our stuff. Sam's things were gone, but the things that we had in our bags were untouched. Like that book." John went to fetch a pad of paper and started writing on it. _You have a son named Dean_.

"You think a post-it-note will stop this thing?"

"Yes." John ripped off the note he had scribbled to himself and stuffed it in his pocket, then handed the pad of paper to Dean. Simple is best. It was one of the rules of strategy that had made John Winchester one of the most feared hunters in North America.

"That's brilliant, Dad. What if we each keep a picture in our pocket, too? With the note."

"Good idea, son. Make sure you put it somewhere you won't loose it."

Dean nodded. "Yes, sir."

"If we get separated, I will come find you," John said. "And then we will be back. I promise."

Dean looked around the small apartment that was the closest thing to home he had had known since he was four. He had left a thousand apartments behind, never to see them again, but this time would be different. Dad had promised, and John Winchester always kept his promises.

o0o

 _Bobby,_

 _Stopped by for a visit._

 _Had some dinner. Packed some food for the road. You might need to get groceries. And cash. I took the money you keep inside that book about werewolves._

 _Gotta get to Pastor Jim's._ _If you see my Dad-_

The pen crossed out the last line then hovered, unsure what to say next. _Please fix my Dad_ sort of required more explanation than Sam could fit on this post-it note. Sam signed his name and stuck the note to the refrigerator where Bobby was sure to see it.

He looked around the house one last time. The familiar maze of dusty old books had made him feel safe for the first time in weeks. But Sam didn't know how long Bobby would be gone. It could be a day, and it could be a month.

Sam needed to move on. He shouldered the bag of supplies he'd gathered, some food for the road and some cash for a bus. Next stop: Blue Earth, Minnesota. Jim's church had changed phone numbers recently, and Sam didn't know the new one to call ahead. But he had enough cash to make the trip now. Even if Jim was gone, someone there would be able to help him.

He hoped.

Sam shut the door, making sure that it locked firmly again. Bobby had locked up tight before he left, but that didn't stop Sam. He tromped down the lane and shimmied through the small gap in the fence under the chain.

"Gotcha!" A hand clamped down on Sam's arm while he was caught in the narrow part of the fence with no way to run. Sam dropped his bag, feet kicking against the gravel for a good purchase. The hand held him tight as he pushed his way to freedom, and another hand clamped tight on his other shoulder. Whoever this person was, they were strong and used to wrestling unwilling victims.

"Let me go!"

Sam craned his head to get a look at his attacker, a dark-haired woman he had never seen before. Her eyes narrowed in a stern glare.

"You're not going anywhere, kid."

 **Uh-oh! What's going to happen to Sam? Bobby, John, and Dean are currently headed in the opposite direction. What will they find in Edina?**

 **Thanks for reading, please review!**


	5. Dead Ends

**Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who has favorited or followed this story. It means a lot to know that you are enjoying the read, and are interested in more. I hope you like this next chapter.**

 **5: Dead Ends**

 _You've reached Singer Salvage. I am not available to take your call right now. If you have an immediate need for a tow or a part, call Joe's Towing Service at 555-3219_.

 _Mr. Singer, this is Deputy Mills with the Sheriff's dept. We have apprehended a trespasser on your property. It's very important that you call me back as soon as possible_.

Jody hung up the phone and turned her attention back to the boy who sat across from her at the desk. He slumped in his chair, arms folded over his chest, glaring at his toes. His clothes were torn and half-healed scratches covered his face. There was also a small bruise on his left cheek, turning black now and nearly faded. Where had he gotten them?

The boy wasn't telling. As soon as he realized that he couldn't get away from Jody, he had clamped his mouth shut and refused to speak. Now they were back at the station, and Jody was no closer to deciding how to handle this kid than she had been when she caught him. Should she call his parents and send him home with a warning? Should she arrest him and let a judge sort it out? Or should she call Child Services to investigate the source of that bruise?

It would help if she could drag even one whole word out of him. "What were you doing breaking into that place, huh? Don't you know it's dangerous to play around a scrap heap?"

The boy snorted and rolled his eyes.

Jody tried a firmer tactic. "You could go to jail for three months for trespassing."

The boy lifted his eyes to glare at Jody. She crossed her arms, narrowed her eyes, and glared right back.

On the other side of the room, Deputy Haines shook his head despairingly. "You're ever going to get anywhere with him like that."

"Yeah, how would you know?" Jody and Deputy Haines had gone through training at the same time, about six months ago. He didn't have any more experience at interrogating pre-teens than she did.

"Clearly, you don't have kids." Deputy Haines sipped his coffee with a knowing expression. Never mind that his kids were three and one respectively. "Let me know when you want help."

Jody let out a long-suffering sigh, bowed her head, and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened again, the kid was still glaring, his expression unchanged. _I can do this all day, lady. Can you?_

Jody did not want to do this all day. She wanted a solution to the problem of an unaccompanied minor. It would be easiest to call his parents and let them handle this.

"Look, I don't want to arrest you. If I do, you'll have to do some kind of community service or something, and no one here has ever seen you before so I'm guessing this is your first offense. I'd be happy to let your parents take you home and let you off with a warning." Most kids would jump at that chance. Punishment via parent was preferable to punishment via court. Usually.

The kid just sunk lower in his chair and dropped his eyes to his toes again.

Jody bit her lip, and her tone softened. Calling his parents would be the easy solution, but it might not be the best one. "Look, if someone is hurting you or if you're in some kind of trouble, we can help you. We don't have to call your parents. But if there is a reason that you don't want to go home, you have to tell me what it is."

"I'm not going with Child Services," the kid said.

Finally! Words at last! She was making progress of a sort. "You aren't eighteen, so I can't let you leave here if you're not in the custody of an adult. If that's not your parents, and it's not a social worker, then who is it?"

"Bobby was going to help me," the kid said.

So the visit to the scrapyard had been more than just teenage high-jinx. "Bobby isn't home. I've called three times and he's not answering." Everyone knew that the old scrapper would vanish for days at a time. No one knew where he went or why.

The kid looked away. "He'd help if he was home."

"Help with what?" Jody knew as well as anyone in town that Bobby Singer had turned a bit odd after his wife died. She could not imagine him willingly spending time with a child. She also could not imagine him turning away anyone in need. Jody had seen Bobby out in the worst storms with his tow truck to pull some innocent traveler or other out of a ditch. "What can Bobby do for you that your parents can't?"

The kid's scowl deepened.

"Hey, we're the good guys here. I want to help you, but I can't do that if you don't tell me what's wrong."

Tears started to streak down the kid's face, even though his glare was still firmly in place. Jody felt her heart melt. She didn't have any children, but she hoped to someday. Jody came around the desk and placed her hand on Sam's back, making small, soothing circles like her mother used to do. "Hey, it's ok. You're safe here. Tell me what happened."

"I can't find my family." The boy's tone was soft, all traces of defensiveness gone. "I thought Bobby could help me. He and Dad are friends and he babysits us a lot. But he wasn't there."

"Do you know anyone else who can help you?" Jody asked.

The boy nodded. "Yeah. That's where I was going when you stopped me." He gave her a stern glare again, this time through red-rimmed eyes. As if the entire fiasco were her fault.

"Well, I'm not going to just send you on your way. But I can make a few calls."

The boy shook his head. "Pastor Jim's got a new phone number. I forgot it."

"I work for the Sheriff's department. I bet I can find it." Jody gestured to the shiny computer that sat on her desk. She had been wary of the thing when they first taught her how to use it, but she had to admit it was useful. "Give me a name and an address and we'll see what comes up."

The boy leaned forward eagerly. "His name is Jim Murphy and he lives in Blue Earth Minnesota."

o0o

 _La Plata, MO_

It wasn't hard to find the hotel they had stayed at, even though the hunt had been over three months ago. There had been only one option, a shabby little place with only five rooms just off of the highway. Only one car was parked out front now. They had four chances in five that their old room would be empty.

John paused for a moment to contemplate the motel. It looked like a thousand other motels they had stayed in, with peeling paint and faded curtains. A little worn-down, yes, but not a place most monsters would bother with. Monsters hunted in places where people were less likely to be missed; even at a place this cheap the owner would still come to collect on the bill. Spirits rarely attached to places like this because they had not spent enough time here in life. People passed through motels, they didn't make homes there. Even when a death did occur in a motel room, if the spirit lingered it would likely attach to a personal object, not the place itself.

All were reasons why John Winchester had considered motels safe places for his son. While out on a hunt he could be reasonably sure that nothing supernatural would stumble upon them. As for more mundane threats, well, John had trained his boy to deal with those.

Safe spaces were never foolproof. John had learned that in the jungles of Vietnam. There was only so much he could do to keep danger away. Which was why he made sure that he taught his son how to deal with whatever might threaten him. John had drilled Dean to shoot straight, follow orders in an emergency, and handle himself in a fistfight. John made sure that Dean knew how to read people, how to spot a threat, and how to get away. All of the work and the training had only one goal; to keep his son safe.

If John had trained Dean that way, he must have trained Sam as well. Now, he knew that all of that work had failed. A boy was missing. A boy who had been in John's care. John could not remember the child, but he still felt the sting of guilt.

"You comin' or what?" Bobby seemed crankier than usual ever since he had arrived at their Iowa home. Now he glared impatiently through the Impala's window and gestured meaningfully at the motel.

"Yeah." John hauled himself out of the car and Dean followed suit. They approached the front desk together, where a bored-looking teen sat with a CARS magazine and a can of soda.

"Can I help you?"

"Room 1 please."

The kid shook his head. "Sorry man, it's taken." The kid reached toward the rack of keys on the back wall and lifted down one labeled '4.' "All our rooms are the same."

"I'd like room one please." John lifted a fifty dollar bill from his wallet and slid it across the counter.

The kid's mouth dropped open for a moment, gaping. Then he shook his head and shoved the bill back to John. "Dude, that won't get me very far if I get fired."

"We left something behind that we need to find," Bobby said. "It's very important that we get into that room."

"Yeah, and it's very important that I get paid at the end of the week," the kid replied. "You can have it after the people who are there now leave."

John, Dean, and Bobby exited the small lobby and stood on the step.

"Well, we can ask them if we could take a look around," Bobby suggested.

John looked to his son. Dean was good at getting himself into trouble. The talent came with a certain skill set that proved extremely useful in situations like this. "Got any ideas, son?"

Dean grinned. "You mean, can I make the people in room one go beg the front desk or another room, or better yet pack up and leave completely? Yeah."

"Hmph." Bobby rolled his eyes and took the fifty which John still had in his fist. "Spare me." He went to room 1, knocked on the door, and held up the fifty. John didn't hear what was said, but after a moment of consideration, the woman in the room took the money. Ten minutes later, she had her bags packed and was gone.

Bobby did always have a way of seeing the most practical solution in any given situation. John followed his friend into the room, Dean close on his heels.

"Alright, let's tear this place apart." John had hunted a witch in this town, and witches could hide their tiny hexbags anywhere. The small team set to the work of searching every nook and cranny of the room with fierce determination. Dean ripped the covers off of the bed. Bobby took apart the refrigerator, and John started dis-assembling the furniture.

They were going to get to the bottom of this. John was going to find out what had messed with his head. He had made this mess, even if he couldn't remember the details, and he would fix it.

o0o

"Wow. I think this is mine." Dean held up an old candy bar wrapper he had found under the cushion of the small chair. He snipped at the wrapper as if to lick it, then grimaced and threw it in the trash. "I think that's everything."

"Nothin'." Bobby let the pillow drop from his hands onto the box-springs. The mattress was tipped up against the wall, the lamp lay on its side. Everything in the small motel room had been scoured over the past hour, and they had found nothing. Bobby took of his ball cap and slapped it against the end-table. "Dammit!"

He had hoped that something would be left behind, some remains of a spell or something dropped by Sam that would put them on the right track. Something that would bring bring back John and Dean's lost memories. Bobby had no doubt that if either of them could remember losing Sam, they would also remember something that would help pick up the trail to find Sam. It had been worth a try, but now here they were with nothing to show for their trouble and a whole day wasted.

"We could go over it again." Dean kicked at the edge of the carpet they had ripped up with a frown that said, _please, don't make me do that_!

Bobby shook his head. "No. It won't help. There's nothing here."

"Fine. We'll move on to step two." John didn't sound troubled. Methodical as always, when one lead didn't pan out he moved on to the next without hesitation. John produced a picture of Sam from his pocket. "I'll go make some copies of this and we'll canvas the town. There's a chance someone remembers seeing him."

"The guy at the front desk didn't remember us," Dean said.

"There's still a chance someone else in town will," Bobby said, trying to sound reassuring. He gestured to the hotel phone. "Give me a few minutes to check my messages and I'll be ready to go."

"Check your messages? When a boy is missing?" John's frowned, hands on hips, as if Bobby were one of his wayward children instead of the man who had taught John just about everything he knew about demons.

"Yeah, well, this isn't the only hunt and you aren't the only hunter in the world, John Winchester. I check in every day and call back the folks who could use some help."

Bobby reached for the phone, but a loud exclamation stopped him.

"What the ****!"

The shrill voice came from the doorway, and Bobby looked up to see a young woman staring wide-eyed at the mess. She wore a housekeeping uniform and pushed a cart with a giant garbage bag and shelves of cleaning supplies. Her cheeks flushed and she shook her head.

"No! No! No! I am not cleaning that—you?!" Her eyes narrowed as they landed on John. "What are you doing back here?"

"You remember me?" John asked, taking a slow step toward her.

"Remember you? Yeah." The woman took a careful step backwards. "You're the one that left that weird Wicca stuff behind."

"Weird Wicca stuff?" Dean repeated.

"Yes, weird!" the woman nodded her head emphatically. "I mean, I didn't think anything of it. I thought it was a funny potpourri thing, but when Rachel saw it she _flipped out_. Her family is really religious and she said it was some kind of evil spell."

It was amazing what civilians knew about the supernatural without realizing it. Or maybe it was simply in the nature of a hex bag to give someone the creeps. They usually contained some very nasty ingredients.

"What did that evil spell look like?" Bobby asked.

The woman shrugged. "I told you, like a potpourri bag."

"What did you do with it?"

"Threw it out of course! Well," the woman looked to the left, then to the right, and pulled a small sachet out of her pocket. "I kept one just to keep Rachel on her toes."

All three hunters suddenly straightened, eyes on the small bit of fabric held together with a bit of twine. Bobby allowed himself a relieved smile and stepped forward to find a way to persuade the woman to give up her prize, but John beat him to it with his usual finess. That is to say, John snatched the hex bag out of the woman's hand without asking.

"Hey!" The woman reached for her stolen property, but John backed her out of the doorway with three decisive steps forward.

"Don't worry, we'll clean up the mess." John shut the door in her face. He turned back to Bobby and Dean, holding the hex bag out so they could all get a good look. It was hard to believe such a small thing could cause so much trouble.

"Well, let's take a look inside." Bobby took the bag and untied the string. There were no bones or graveyard dirt inside, only a bundle of hair and an herb Bobby did not recognize. He pulled out his Polaroid camera to take a picture. It would be better to have the real sample, but that wouldn't be possible. This hex-bag needed to burn.

"Only one." Dean stared at the hex bag, his hopeful expression sinking as he did the math and came to the only obvious conclusion. "Don't you have to burn a hex bag to break the spell?"

"Yep," Bobby said. He didn't like it, but it was better than nothing. "This is the hex bag that worked on one of you. If we burn it, one of you will remember Sam."

"What about the other one?" Dean asked, even though he must already know the answer.

"We will find a way to deal with that when we find whoever or whatever did this to us in the first place, "John said. Deal with the problem first, deal with the fallout later. John pulled out his lighter and set the hex-bag on fire.

 **Uh-oh. Only one hex bag means we can only break the spell on one Winchester. Who will remember? Will Bobby ever get around to checking his messages?**

 **Thanks for reading! Please don't forget to review, follow, or favorite!**


	6. Searching

**6: Searching**

The deputy frowned and pressed the little button on the phone that would hang up and reset the dial tone repeatedly. There was silence on the other end. She hung up the handset and shook her head.

"I'm sorry, the phone lines seem to be down.

"What?" Sam felt a scream of frustration tear through him. He had been so close. The nice deputy had listened, actually _listened_ to him. She had found the number for Pastor Jim's church. Now, just as she was ready to make the call, the phones died. Sam kicked at the desk, making at rattle with a satisfying thump.

"Hey!" Deputy Mills held up her hands with a warning look. "There's no need for that! We'll try again later."

 _No_! Sam wanted to shout and not care if he sounded like a five-year-old throwing a tantrum. He wanted Dean, to be here to tease him for acting like a five-year-old. He wanted Dad, even if it was to give him a stern warning about acting his age. He wanted Bobby, who always knew what to do when Dad was gone. Most of all, he wanted to end this nightmare he had fallen into.

Sam reached down to gather up his bag. "Thanks for trying," he said to the deputy, then turned to leave. He had a plan. He knew how to get to Pastor Jim's. He could make it there just fine on his own. After all, he had made it this far.

"Whoa, whoa! Where do you think you're going?"

Sam paused and looked up at the deputy. She was on her feet, ready to block his path to the door. Clearly, he needed a better exit strategy.

"Sam!" A voice called across the office. Sam's head jerked around at the sound of his name. A woman had come to the front desk. She had dark hair tied back in a neat pony tail and wore dark slacks and a stylish jacket. She raised one arm to wave to him and slid sideways past the security guard. "That's the boy I've been looking for, my nephew. Oh I've been so worried!"

No one stopped the woman as she pushed past the security desk and rushed to Sam's side. She wrapped him in a warm hug as if he were a long-lost relative. There was even a tear trickling down her cheek.

Sam squirmed and pulled away, but she had a hold of his arm and refused to let go. Her grip was firm and determined.

"Worried? You don't know me!" Sam didn't know her name and he didn't know what he wanted, but he had seen her before. He had caught glimpses of her out of the corner of his eye ever since the last day he saw Dad and Dean. At first Sam hadn't thought anything of it, but she kept showing up. She would be across the street or lurking on a corner, always watching him. Now, she had followed him across three states.

"What do you want?"

"Oh Sam! Still not ready to come home?" The woman gave him a fond smile and ruffled his hair. Then she heaved a sad sigh and turned to the deputy, who watched the interaction with narrowed eyes.

"Sam isn't settling in very well since he lost his father. We used to get along wonderfully, but now that I'm his guardian I have to lay down the law. I can't be the 'fun' aunt anymore. His counselor says he's acting out, but we're getting it sorted out. What did he do this time?"

"Trespassing." Deputy Mills had relaxed a little at the woman's explanation, but she still had a wary look in her eye. "If you are this boy's guardian, I will need to see paperwork."

"It's not true!" Sam knew how easy it was to forge the proper paperwork. "I don't know her and I don't want to go with her."

The woman didn't miss a beat. She crouched down next to Sam with a concerned expression. "Sam, I know it's hard but you need to accept it. Your father isn't coming back. You don't have anywhere else to go." Each word was like a little cut biting into his skin. "Come home with me and we'll sort this out."

As she spoke, the woman's hand crept down Sam's arm toward his pocket. She had something in her fist. With a quick motion she flipped Sam's jacket pocket open to deposit the small bundle there.

"Hey!" Sam shoved her away. The bundle missed his pocket and bounced across the floor. It was a swatch of dark cloth tied with twine and painted with a strange symbol. Fear sliced through Sam, hot and furious. He knew what that thing could do to him. He did not want to forget Dad. He would not forget Dean.

The woman—the witch—hissed in frustration and reached for the hex-bag. Sam shoved her as hard as he could, and she plunged headlong into a nearby chair. The chair spun across the room, making Deputy Mills dodge out of the way. Everyone reached out the help the woman who was not Sam's aunt.

The path to the doorway was wide open.

Sam dropped his travel bag. It would only slow him down. He darted through the security desk, out the front door, and ran down the road as fast as he feet could take him.

o0o

Tongues of red flame licked the edges of the hex bag. It wilted in the heat, then slowly crumbled to a pile of ash. John felt a jagged pain slice through his skull, as if the flames were inside him for a brief moment. Then the world changed. Memories hit him like a rain of bricks; the face of a boy with warm eyes and shaggy hair, the fear of losing his child, the knowledge that something out there wanted to take him away.

"Sam!" The howl rose from his lips like a wild thing. John clapped his hands over his head and staggered. _I have another son. His name is Sam_.

 _He's gone_.

John had spent his entire life fighting. After his father abandoned them, he had learned to fight dirty to protect himself from the bullies at school. In the jungles of Vietnam, he had learned to fight for his life. After Mary's death, he had spent every waking moment fighting to keep his sons safe.

Today, he had lost that fight. Sam was gone. Sam had been gone for over three months. The fact was a dark cloud that blanketed John's mind, obscuring everything else.

"No." John could hear the strangled sob in his voice. He saw Dean staring at him wide-eyed, unsure what to say. Bobby gripped his shoulder tight, the scrapper's strong fingers thick and reassuring.

"You remember?"

John nodded, not sure he could manage more than single-syllable words yet. "Yes."

"Good." Bobby pulled a chair over and pushed John into it. "That means we've got a place to start."

"A place to start? Bobby, they took Sam!" There was no doubt in John's mind who had taken Sam. It was demons, beings made of black smoke who stole the bodies of innocent humans to do their will. They had been following the Winchester family ever since they left Lawrence all those years ago. "They took Sam and I didn't even know to start looking! They could be anywhere by now. He could be dead. He could be possessed. _Or worse_."

"You don't think I know that?!" There was a kick in Bobby's tone now, the useful kind, the kind that got those who felt sorry for themselves up and moving again. "They've got a three-month lead but you're still the most effective hunter on the Northern Hemisphere. Why do you never say no to a case?"

"To stay sharp. To stay ready." To keep his fighting skills honed so that on the day they came for Sam, John would be able to stop them.

"Well, are you ready? 'Cause three months is a heck of a lead and we've got a lot of catching up to do."

"Catch up with who?" Dean stood at the foot of the bed, gaze bouncing between his father and Bobby. "Who's 'they,' Dad? Do you know who took Sam? I thought it was the witch we hunted here."

"We killed the witch." John had stopped her heart and burned her body. There was no coming back from that. "A demon took your brother."

"A demon?" Dean's face paled. "How do you know it was a demon?"

Bobby held up a cautionary had. "Now we don't know anything for sure yet. Maybe there was a second witch. That spell on your memory is a hex. It's not demonic."

"Witches get their power from demons, Bobby. It's all connected."

"I know you have good reasons for your conspiracy theory, John, but we still don't know for sure that's what happened here." Bobby's cool logic cut through the wave of panic that had John spinning theories in a thousand directions. "We need to start with what we know. Tell me about this witch."

"She wiped out memories." John grimaced. "She would pose as a home care worker for the elderly, take their valuables, and leave them without any memory of her. Most people thought it was dementia until a granddaughter of one of the victims tracked down the witch and landed in the hospital with complete amnesia."

Bobby winced in sympathy. "Every witch has their special trick. That hex bag we found matches her pattern."

Which meant no demonic involvement. John shook his head. "No, we killed the witch. I know that for sure."

"Yes, your memory is so reliable," Bobby replied.

"No, we did kill her! I remember it too," Dean said. He was still on the edge of the room, hovering at the edge of the conversation as if he wanted to join in but didn't know how. He still did not remember Sam.

John stared at his elder son and felt his heart break again. Dean had loved the idea of being a big brother since he first felt Sam kick inside Mary's womb. Now, he didn't even know what he had lost.

"The spell just made me forget something. It didn't make up anything new. Did it?" Dean's brow furrowed, and for a moment he looked small and vulnerable in a way John had not seen for a long, long time.

"There's no way to know," Bobby replied. "We need to retrace your steps and see if we can pick up any leads."

"We need to canvas the town and see if anyone remembers Sam," John said. "It's one thing to hex Dean and I. It's another to affect the entire place. If someone kidnapped Sam, he'd fight."

"Sure he would, if he remembered the he should."

Bobby's words sent a chill through John's spine. Dean blinked. "You think my brother doesn't remember us?"

If Sam did not remember them, he would not fight. He would not know where to go if he got free. He could be lost with no idea how to get home, or where home even was. All of the drilling that John had done with his boys, phone numbers and defense skills, would mean nothing if Sam had been affected by the hex too.

"Right now we don't know anything," Bobby reminded them.

"Bobby's right, we need information." John was back on his feet. He had a plan, and they had no time to waste. They had wasted enough already on that stupid apartment and that stupid job back in Iowa.

Had that been part of the hex too?

No. Not likely. John turned to Dean again. His eldest son had become a different boy these past few months. Would he step up and help find Sam the way he had stepped up to take care of his brother so many times before?

Do I have the right to ask him to?

Do I have a choice? Dean knew how to handle himself on a hunt, and this thing wasn't after him. He would be safe enough, far safer than Sam was was right now. "We'll split up. If we each go in a different direction, we'll work faster."

"Dad, you said we have to stick together." Dean's expression was worried, surprised that his father would forget he had given such an important order.

"This is the fastest way to find Sam-"

"I don't care!" Dean shot back. "What if one of us gets taken next? You said we stick together."

 _We don't have time to argue. We've lost three months already_. "Dean, you'll do as I say."

"Dean and I can question folk around town while you look over the site where you killed the witch." Bobby stepped between them and clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Dean will be safe with me, and we'll still be able to cover more ground."

John nodded. "Alright. We'll meet back here in two hours." John marched out the door, keys to the Impala already in hand. He checked for the cold weight of the bottle of holy water tucked in his pocket, then the awkward shape of the gun in the other. Witch or demon, whoever took his son was going to pay.

o0o

 _Idjit_. The refrain blasted relentless through his head as Bobby drove across town and mentally cursed himself yet again for waiting so long to check in with the Winchesters. He should have called when he first heard the rumors. He should have called at the first hint of odd behavior. Now they were working against the clock to find a boy who might already be dead.

 _Maybe I should get out an ouija board just to check_. Bobby chucked the thought as soon as it entered his mind. John was not likely to accept any answer the spirit world gave. He would hunt for Sam until he found his boy, or the body.

Dean had the photo of Sam perched on his knees and he hadn't taken his eyes off it the entire drive. It was a blown-up version of the small photo John usually kept in his wallet, the image slightly distorted by the magnification process. Dean traced his finger along the edge of the photo, as if willing it to come to life for him. "Bobby, what's my brother like? I mean, look at this hair! Who let that happen?" Dean snorted. "He must be pretty stubborn."

"That he is." Leave it to Dean to complain about Sam's hair at a time like this. Bobby spared a glance from the road for the boy in the passenger seat. The boys were constantly fighting about Sam's hair. Dean had even gotten his way once with a bottle of Nair, only to have Sam grow his thick, shaggy main back again even longer and messier. Was it possible that bit of memory were working their way through that hex?

"Does he play football? He's got to because I'd teach him. I bet we play a lot."

"There's a window in my back room that one or the other of you busted that still needs fixing." It had been a baseball and not a football that did the damage, and neither boy had confessed to the deed. Bobby had meant to make the boys fix the window themselves, but John had swooped in to pick them up early. That had been the last time Bobby saw Sam.

Dean turned to Bobby with narrowed eyes and a half-grin. "You don't know who did it? Ha! Sammy's got my back! Or I've got his." Dean's smile was growing as ideas bubbled in his mind. "I bet we binge burgers and pizza whenever Dad's not looking. I hope he likes pepperoni. If he's a sausage man we'll have a problem because pizza is only right with pepperoni. I guess we could split the pizza half and half. If he likes Hawaiian, you can forget it. He'll have to get his own because that pineapple juice gets all over everything and pepperoni with pineapple is _not_ ok."

"Sam likes veggie pizza," Bobby replied. He couldn't help a smile at the memory of the last time he had bought pizza for the boys. There had been a half-hour negotiation about toppings that ended with a game of paper-rock-scissors. Dean grumbled all the way through his pepper and tomato covered pizza because Bobby refused to buy a second pie just to keep the peace. Dean had, however, swiped more than his fair share of the breadsticks.

"Veggie?" Dean sounded offended at the very thought. "How did that happen?"

"Sam's got a mind of his own." It was the only thing that explained many things about Sam. "He likes to read," Bobby added.

"Read?" Dean considered this for a moment. "That doesn't sound like my brother."

Maybe it wasn't hidden memories, then. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. Bobby snorted. "You mean it doesn't sound like you."

"Yeah, and if I had a little brother I'd teach him about all the best things and keep him away from all the worst things. We'd watch Shark Week together and fight over the M&M's. I'll cover for him when he sneaks out to be with a girl, and we'll throw a football around when we get done will drills."

"You've given this a lot of thought, huh?"

Dean shrugged. "I've always wanted a brother." He frowned. "I guess I always had a brother. Is all the stuff I remember I wanted about a brother really stuff about my brother?"

Bobby recalled Sam stealing the remote from Dean so he could shut down Shark Week, shoving the M&Ms out of the way for his licorice and marshmallows, and slicing the football open with a knife because he was fed up with John Winchester's required drills.

"Not quite."

"I miss him." Dean paused, staring down at the photograph again. "I miss him so much it hurts and I can't even remember him. That means we did a lot of stuff together."

"That you did." Bobby rarely saw one brother without the other. The pair could barely get through half an hour without some kind of argument, but neither seemed quite whole without the other around. Bobby had watched Sam for a few months not so long ago, and he was a different boy without Dean there to keep his nose out of a book and a smile on his face

Bobby pulled into the parking lot and looked out at the crowd of Saturday shoppers that clogged the sidewalk. "Are you ready for this?"

Dean looked up, all the excitement form imagining the perfect brother faded from his face. "What if we don't find him, Bobby? What if I never remember him?"

Bobby had never met John before his hunting days and therefore didn't know what John had been like when his wife was alive. But Bobby had lost his wife and he knew the feeling well enough to recognize it in another man's eyes. Suffering a loss like that twice—Bobby didn't want to know what John would be like.

Was it better to forget? Without any memory of Sam, Dean would have no one to mourn.

"We don't know what's going to happen yet," Bobby said. "Take one day at a time, just like always."

Dean nodded and brushed at his eyes. "Right. Let's do this." He hopped out of the truck and shoved the photograph under the nose of the first person he saw. "Have you seen my brother? His name is Sam. He's a great kid, but we don't know where he is."

 **Wow! So much is happening it's weird to think that barely 24-hours has passed in the story's timeline. What did you think of the chapter?**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	7. The Last Time I Saw Sam

**This chapter takes a little detour, but I promise we will get back to the main action soon. First, we need a little back-story.**

 **7: The last tine I saw Sam**

Three months. For three months, John had not thought of his youngest son. He had carried on with life without a second thought, never knowing there was something missing. He had never looked over his shoulder, never worried about his son's safety. He had relaxed. He had retired.

The thought knocked him flat. He had never thought of Sam as a burden, but there was no denying how a weight had settled over him as soon as John remembered.

Now, he could not stop seeing Sam everywhere he went. Memories of the boy filled the empty spaces. He caught a glimpse of Sam's soft brown eyes in the review, heard the boyish giggle echo out of the backseat, waited for the incessant questions Sam always had ready. How had he not missed this before?

The fact that he had forgotten about his own son meant that John couldn't trust any of the other memories he had of this hunt. If the witch could remove Sam from his mind, what else could she do? John looked up at the apartment building where he had killed the witch. Where he _thought_ he had killed the witch on a hot August night three months ago…

o0o

 _"It doesn't look like an evil place," Sam said as they approached the small apartment building. "It looks normal. Nice."_

 _Lights gleamed in the windows and cicadas provided a shrill backdrop on the hot summer night. It all looked very normal. A gaggle of teenagers had gathered under the streetlight at the corner, sharing a stolen pack of cigarettes and chatting animatedly. Dean eyed them jealously, but didn't waver from his position at his father's side._

 _"Don't be fooled by appearances. A werewolf looks like a human most of the time. A witch is a human, but one that has chosen to worship demons to get power." John kept his voice low so as not to be overheard._

 _"I think that the Wiccans would disagree," Sam said. "There are a lot of people who think that witches are just misunderstood."_

 _"Yeah, and they all watched Bedknobs and Broomsticks and Bewitched," Dean said, sounding irritated. They had all been irritated that night. Something to do with the heat, or the drive, or the simple fact that Sam was hitting puberty and had decided to question_ _everything_ _. He could be relentless, and John was running out of simple answers._

 _Someday soon, he would have to tell Sam everything. He needed to, if he wanted the boy to be prepared for what was coming._

 _"You know that most people don't understand what's really out there," Dean continued. He cast another jealous look at the teenagers under the streetlight. John wondered briefly how he would put a stop to it if Dean decided to start smoking on the sly. When it came to the job, Dean followed orders like the perfect soldier. When it came to other things, he was as rebellious as any other teen._

 _"Remember the plan, Dean."_

 _Dean nodded and trotted off around the back of the building to take up his position at the window of the witch's apartment and wait for his dad's signal._

 _"All true witches are evil, Sam. If a witch has any real power, that power comes from a demon, and demonic power is always bad." They had entered the apartment complex now, and John handed Sam his lock-pick to forestall whatever question his youngest would think up next. Sam's mouth clamped shut and he bent to work on the doorknob with a scowl._

 _o0o_

The sign at the front of the building still listed the witch's old apartment as 'vacant.' Like so many places, it likely contained the remnants of a bad aura. No one would quite understand why, but everyone who saw the apartment would get a bad feeling and move on. Good. It made today's task easier. John pushed through the door and surveyed the empty space. All of the furniture had been cleared away and the walls were bare. John pressed his fingers to a patch of fresh paint and felt the soft caulk underneath.

The landlord had repaired the dent there, made by Dean's shoulder.

o0o

 _John yanked Sam backwards by the shoulder as soon as he had the door open. Sam huffed in annoyance, but stayed behind his father's broad back, in the safest position John could put him while still including him in the hunt. He looked across the room to see Dean's face at the window. He worked at the latch silently. A woman stood between them. She had been stretched out on the couch watching TV and counting cash when the door burst open, but her feet hit the floor and she tossed the cash aside to reach for a hex bag on the table._

 _John raised his gun to take a shot as the witch flung the hex-bag toward him._

 _"No!" Sam jumped up and smacked the hex bag out of the air, ruining John's shot. The witch turned to run out the window, but Dean had already broken in and was waiting for her. She slammed into him shoulder-first, as if she'd played football on the boy's team. Dean's shoulder smacked into the wall, leaving a dent, and his face grew taut with pain. John caught his son's eye. Dean nodded and dropped to the ground, leaving John an open shot. Two to bullets to the chest and one to the head dropped the witch in a spray of blood. The silencer did its job, killing the sound of the gunshots so none of the neighbors would come running._

 _"Dean!" Sam darted to his brother's side and brushed at the blood on Dean's face. "Are you ok?"_

 _Dean gave him the best smile possible through is grimace of pain. "Fine, Sammy, just fine."_

 _"Sam! What did I tell you?" John snapped at his youngest._

 _Sam turned questioning eyes to his father. "What?"_

 _"What were your instructions?"_

 _Sam's eyes fell. His glanced at Dean, then looked away. "Stay behind you, watch and learn, only shoot if you tell me."_

 _"Then what do you think you were doing? You got in the line of fire!"_

 _"Dad! She threw a spell at you! Those little bags are their magic, right? What would have happened if it hit you?"_

 _"What would have happened if it hit you?" John shot back. "Next time you do exactly as I say."_

 _"But Dad-!"_

 _"Don't argue with me, Sam. I need to fix Dean's shoulder and then we need to get out of here. Go watch the door."_

 _Sam gave him a narrow-eyed glare, but went to do as he had been told._

 _o0o_

John knelt to examine a dark stain on the floor. The landlord had called for a professional cleaner, but blood could be very hard to remove. His memory wasn't wrong. They had killed a witch here. His eyes traveled over the dusty floor to another mark, a small shoe print. It was delicate, with a pointed toe and a tiny heel; a woman's shoe. John pulled paper and pencil from his pocket to trace the outline. It could be nothing. It could be the landlord or perspective renter. Or it could be the most important clue to finding Sam.

o0o

John went to the grave site next. It was easy to find. He had selected it very carefully the first time around. Finding the half-forgotten bits of land where one could dig a six-foot hole without being noticed was an art every hunter had to develop. John had spotted the small valley, split by a creek and filled with trees that made it useless for agriculture, on his way into town.

Evidence of the hole, six feet long and two feet wide, was still there. The dirt had started to settle but the turf was still overturned. It seemed he had buried the witch, too.

Then who had hexed his memory and taken Sam?

o0o

 _Dean had sat back against at tree on lookout duty while John and Sam dug the grave. The witch's body sat a few feet way, wrapped I the blanket they had used to carry her out of the apartment building unseen. Every time Sam lifted his head to fling dirt out of the hole his eyes drifted to that motionless lump._

 _It wasn't the first time Sam had helped to bury a body, but he was looking a little green around the gills. Perhaps it was because he blamed himself for Dean's injured shoulder. Dean seemed to sense Sam's discomfort and chatted while they dug, talking about the TV shows they would watch as soon as they got back to the motel, and the pizza place he had seen on the way here. He also munched on chips the entire time, and refused to give Sam any until the hole was dug._

 _o0o_

A yellow strip of color caught John's eye. He reached under the dried leaves and pulled out a yellow potato chip bag. A squirrel or raccoon had cleaned out the last of the crumbs.

o0o

 _Sam sat on the edge of the grave and wiped his brow. Then he leaned toward Dean, hand held out. "Alright, it's done! Feed me."_

 _"Not done yet." John tossed his shovel aside and went to pick up the body. The corpse twitched and gurgled as he shifted it. Sam flinched and stared, then dashed behind a tree, dropped to his knees, and vomited._

 _"Sam!" Dean struggled to his feet. "Hey, Sammy, you ok?"_

 _John tossed the witch's body into the grave and joined Dean by Sam's side. "Are you feeling sick, son?" John touched Sam's forehead, but Sam pulled away._

 _"No." His cheeks were growing red now, embarrassed. "It's just—she's human." He swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward the grave. "She hasn't got fangs or claws or—she's just human."_

 _"She stopped being just human when she started using witchcraft," John said. It was the hardest part of the job sometimes, killing something that didn't look like a monster. But it was a necessary part of the job. He placed a book of matches in Sam's hand. "She was killing people and the police wouldn't have any idea how to stop her. So we did."_

 _o0o_

John paused by the tree where Sam had thrown up and closed his eyes with sigh of regret. _I should have hugged him tight and told him he never has to do something like this again_. But that was the one thing he could not do for Sam. The boy had a target on his back and demons on his heels. Sam couldn't be soft, couldn't hesitate to kill. If he did, the demons would win.

A dent in the mud caught his eye. John bent down to trace his fingers over the edge of another footprint. The shoe was small and delicate, with a pointed toe and a tiny heel. The same woman who had been to the apartment had been here was well. Was it a witch? A demon? Or something else entirely?

It didn't matter. If it was after Sam, John Winchester would find it, kill it, and burn it just has he had done to this witch.

o0o

 _John got up and went to sprinkle salt and gasoline over the body. Sam stepped forward on wobbly legs. He stared down at the body for a moment. What was going through that curious mind? John never paid much attention to the things he hunted beyond the basic information he needed to track and kill them. But Sam asked different questions. Was he wondering if this witch had once been a good woman? If she had family and friends?_

 _Those kinds of questions didn't lead anywhere pleasant and just made the job harder._

 _"Sam," John prompted._

 _Sam struck the matches and flung the flaming book into the hole. Then he turned and tucked himself up under Dean's shoulder, hiding his face from the flames as the smell of burning flesh and bone began to fill the clearing. John nodded to Dean, and Dean steered Sam back up the hill and back to the car._

 _He's not cut out for this life_ _._

 _Not for the first time, John wished that he could stop. Stop hunting, stop running, stop training his children to be survivors and just let them be kids. How would they all be different, if they had been able to remain in Lawrence?_

 _John stopped the thought in its tracks. Those kinds of questions didn't lead anywhere helpful and only made the job harder._

 _It took a while for the flames to turn the corpse to ash, and the heat of the fire dried the tears before they could leave his eyes. The boys didn't need to see him cry for a life they could never have. With a sigh, he filled in the grave, picked up his shovel, and followed the boys to the only home they had._

 _o0o_

John climbed into the Impala and looked back at the empty seat behind him. Sam had spent half of his life there, reading a book or playing road games with his brother. Their endless chatter, and endless fights, had filled John's ears for over a decade now. The silence was unnerving, the emptiness an ache that filled every fiber of his being.

He had the confirmation he needed; the witch was dead. What was more, he had a clue. One footprint wasn't much, but it was a start. John pulled away from the burial site and headed back to the motel as fast as he could go.

 _I will find you, Sam_.

 **Well, what did you think?**


	8. The Scent of Sulphur

**8: The Scent of Sulphur**

 _Stupid_!

It had been a risk. She knew that when she walked into the sheriff's department. It would have been better to snatch the boy while he was alone. But he was about to get help, and help meant that hunters would be on the way. It had been her last chance.

And the boy had beaten her with a chair of all things. The witch rubbed her hip where the chair had slammed into her. She was going to have a nasty bruise.

"Would you like some ice, ma'am?" The deputy who had been assigned to keep an eye on her asked so politely. He would be less polite if she tried to get up and walk away, she thought.

"I would like to go home. Am I under arrest?"

The deputy sidestepped the question neatly. "Ma'am, we'd like you to stay here while our people look for Sam-"

It would be so easy to kill the stammering idiot and watch him drown in his own blood. But if she did that, she would have more trouble than she cared to deal with.

She already had more trouble than she cared to deal with. It would have been cleaner to kill the Winchester boy back when she first saw him. Simple revenge: the father had killed her daughter, she would kill his son. That had been the plan. Until she saw the demons had taken such an interest in the boy. Until she realized he reeked of demonic power. It was dormant, unused. The boy probably didn't even know it himself. But it was there. If she could teach him and win his loyalty, he would be a powerful weapon.

If she could catch him.

She looked up at the deputy and rose to her feet. "If I am not under arrest then I am leaving." It worked in the movies. The deputy hesitated for a brief moment, but didn't stop her as she shoved past him. They were suspicious of her, Sam's little tantrum had made sure of that, but they did not have enough to arrest her. Yet.

o0o

Dean and Bobby were already back at the hotel room when John returned. Bobby was slowly putting the furniture back where it belonged while Dean flipped through the phone book. They both moved with a swift, sure energy which could mean only one thing: they had found something.

"What are you looking for?" John felt his heart hammering.

Dean's head swung up at the sound of his fathers voice, and he grinned with pride. "We found a name!"

"What?"

"It took about two minutes to find someone who knew Sam." Dean frowned, and John thought he saw a hint of jealousy creep across his son's face. Even strangers could remember Sam, but Dean still could not. "He's been going to school here since last week."

"Last week?" John repeated, fixing Dean with a disbelieving stare. "He's been missing for three months."

Dean shook his head. "Not around here. The first kid I showed this picture to knew Sam right away. Sam's been going to school here for three months. Or if it wasn't Sam, it was someone who looks exactly like him."

John turned to Bobby, who nodded. "That's what they all said, everyone we questioned."

"Who enrolled him in school?" John demanded. No school would accept a child without a parent behind him. He hand curled around the back of a chair and he leaned in for support. His mind was too busy trying to pull together the information to focus on staying upright, too.

"His foster parents. Apparently he showed up at the Child Services office three months ago and asked for help. He wouldn't tell anyone his last name or where he came from."

"He was hexed too." John let out a deep breath. Even if he couldn't remember his family, Sam was a resourceful boy. "At least he has had someone to take care of him. What happened last week?"

Bobby shrugged. "We don't know. He ran away, just vanished one day and no one knows where he went."

"What?" John heard the crack in his own voice and swallowed hard, then looked to Dean for confirmation.

Dean nodded. "They said he took off. No one really knew why."

John pressed his lips together in a determined line and stood again. "We'll find out. Did this foster family have a name?"

"Yep. I was just looking for the address." Dean held up the phone book. "Rhymes with Frankenstien. Where are you?"

"What'd you find?" Bobby asked while Dean searched.

"The hunt happened just like I remember. The witch is dead. The grave was there, the apartment is empty. But I found this." John produced the tracing of the shoe print and handed it over to Bobby. "It was at the burial sight and at the apartment."

"You burned the body outside, right?"

John nodded.

"Then this print can't be that old. It's not likely to last through a good rain."

John nodded again. "Yep." The pieces were starting to fall together. Whoever had been to the burial sight had been in town about the same time Sam disappeared from foster care. "Sam was really staying with a foster family?"

"According to five teenagers and a woman who claims she works at the school," Bobby said.

"Hm." Why would someone wipe Sam's memory, just to leave him to the mercy of child services?

 _Beep! Beep! Beep_!

The irritating sound emanated from Bobby's pocket. He pulled a little black box out with a frown. "Well that ain't good."

"Is that a pager?" Dean squinted at the little box that displayed a 9-digit phone number.

"Yeah."

"I thought only doctors and lawyers and stuff had those."

"I got one a while back. It's a good way for someone to get a hold of you if they can't call you." Bobby's frown deepened. "Joe, the fella who takes care of tows when I'm out of town, is the only one with this number and he knows to only use it in emergencies. I think I need to make a phone call."

"We don't have time to waste, Bobby," John said.

"I can call while Dean looks up that address-"

"I've got it!" Dean tapped the line on the phone book. "Gilbert Finklestein. 222 Orchard Way."

"Right." Bobby pocketed his pager. "Let's go. If the house has burned down, a phone call won't change anything. Besides, if you don't like the answers this foster family has to give us, you're going to want me with you."

"Why? To stop me doing something I'll regret?"

"To help you bury the body."

o0o

 _I won't go back. I won't go back. I won't go back._

Sam sat with his back against the wall, shotgun clutched in his hands. The barrel rested across the top of his knees, lined up to shoot the head or torso of whoever might try to come through that door. The edges of coats brushed the top of Sam's head, and boots lay scattered beside him. He could barely see anything in the dark space, only a small crack of light came through the closet door. His breath came in short, ragged gasps.

This was the safest place Sam could think of, but his heart would not stop hammering. He had run as fast as he could through town, back down the road he had traveled earlier today. It was as easy to break into Bobby's the second time as it had been the first time. All of the décor was loaded, so Sam grabbed the nearest bit of firepower and crawled into the best hiding space he knew.

The wail of a siren pierced the air, quiet at first but growing steadily louder. The sound of tires skidding across gravel followed, and blue-red-and-white lights flashed through the crack under the door.

Sam thumped his head against the wall of the closet. _Stupid_! The deputy had found him here at Bobby's before. Of course it was the first place she would look.

Dean wouldn't have made such a stupid mistake. Dad would never had needed to run away from the cops in the first place. Despite being crammed in the closet, Sam felt exposed without the wall of flesh that was his father and his brother on either side of him. He had never faced danger alone before. Someone was always with him, bigger, stronger, and more capable of taking on whatever came through that door.

Sam gripped the shot gun tight and waited.

o0o

Dean had never seen Dad drive so fast before. He was beginning to feel sorry for Mr. and Mrs. Finklestein even before they arrived in the neighborhood. Dad's expression was fierce, his eyes glittering with the determination that meant something would die tonight. He never once glanced sideways at Dean; he only had eyes for the road and the destination that lat at the end of it.

Over the course of the past few months things had begun to shift in their little family. Dad spent more time at home, spent more time talking, spent more time smiling.

Spent more time with Dean.

Now, Dean wasn't sure his father realized he was in the car with him. This morning had started out like any other hunt, but ever since that hex bag burned, Dad had seemed like a different person. Dean was just tagging along, trying to keep up while Dad and Bobby tore through the small town looking for clues in a story only they could remember.

 _It's ok. It's because he wants to find my brother._ _This is what Dad would do if he lost me._

The Finklestein's lived in a large Victorian home painted a bright yellow. The lawn was littered with children's toys, and a tire swing dangled from a sturdy tree limb. Dean felt a wrench in his gut. It reminded him of Sonny's, with it's rustic simplicity and the good vibe that came with a home where good people resided.

 _Why did I ever leave?_

 _Dad needed me_. The thought came slowly, and Dean stopped, stunned. Inside that memory was a gaping hole that he suddenly realized meant his brother had been involved.

 _Did Sam stay at Sonny's with me? Or was he with Dad_? Dean's stomach squirmed as he realized that he didn't know. There was something important there, something he couldn't reach anymore. Dad would know, but Dean had a feeling that now wasn't the time to ask.

The second hex bag was lost, tossed in the dump with the rest of the garbage. Could he burn down the dump? Would that get his memories back?

If he could remember Sam, would Dean feel the same raw panic he saw staring out of his father's face?

"Dean! Let's go." Dad thumped on the hood of the car and Dean scrambled to follow his father up the sidewalk where Bobby was already waiting for them.

"Ew, what stinks?" Dean scrubbed at his nose, but the offending smell would not go away. It wasn't strong, just the slightest hint that under the cheery yellow paint something had rotted.

"Sulphur," John growled, turning his grim expression toward Bobby. "Are you going to tell me demons aren't involved now?"

"Follow the evidence and don't jump to conclusions." Bobby jerked his head up in a warning gesture toward the man who had appeared on the front porch. He crossed his arms and gave them a wary look. "Hello Mr. Finklestein! We're-

"I'm here to find my son." Dad overrode Bobby with hi usual finesse. "I'm told you were the last person to see him." John held out the photograph of Sam, his expression a mixture of heartbreak and hope.

"You are Sam's father?" Mr. Finklestein didn't sound pleased with the news. Dean knew the tone. This guy was in the business of caring for children who's fathers had failed them. The fact that Sam had come to the Finklestein home at all made John suspect.

Bobby grimaced and pulled out his FBI badge. "Yes. I'm Agent Willis. I've been heading the search for Sam for over three months now. We were hoping you could help us. I understand a boy matching his description was placed here, but that he ran away. Can you tell us what happened?"

Mr. Finklestein's expression closed up and he shook his head. "I'm sorry, I can't help you."

Dean had deflected difficult questions often enough to spot the same look in someone else. "Can't? Or don't want to?"

"Can't," Mr. Finklestein said, but he held his breath in a pause that indicated there was something else sitting on the edge of his tongue. The hunters waited in silence until the story spilled out. "I don't remember the time Sam spent here. I'm sorry, agent. I can't tell you why Sam left."

The man stared at the ground, as if waiting for the expression of disbelief. How could a person forget three weeks? With a well-placed hex bag.

"Does it feel like TV static when you try to think about it?" John asked. "But when you try to clear the picture that just a blank?"

Mr. Finklestein looked up, the familiar combination of surprise and relief that all witnesses wore when they realized a hunter believed their story. "No. It—there are bits and pieces, but those bits feel like I'm the one watching the TV and someone else is driving my body. I didn't choose to do those things. I couldn't stop it from happening-"

John and Bobby shared a look. That wasn't how the witch's hex bag's worked. The memory was just gone, there were no leftover bits. The grown-ups knew something Dean didn't. Again.

"My husband wasn't himself." A woman came to the doorway of the home. She stepped onto the porch to stand between her husband and his interrogators. "We're seeking treatment and we've given up our foster care license. I assure you, this won't happen again-"

"What happened to my son?" John growled. "He was here for three months. What did you do to make him run away?

Bobby lunged to intercept John before he could tackle Finklestein against the wall. "John! He was possessed. It wasn't his fault."

John glared at the other hunter, but nodded and Bobby released him.

Dean knew his cue. He stepped up with the most harmless, hopeful, help-me expression his could conjure. "Please, we're just trying to find my brother. We need to know what happened."

o0o

Jody Mills glared at the gateway to Singer Salvage yard and the thick chain that held the door shut. She could see the skid marks in the gravel where Sam had wriggled through the gap in the fence. Again. The boy had to be inside.

She shouldn't have wasted time trying to find him in town. If she had come straight here, she would have arrived first and been able to catch the boy as he tried to get in. Instead, she had combed the city streets nearest the Sheriff's office, hoping he would be hiding in an alley or behind a garbage bin, giving Sam plenty of time to make it back to Singer Salvage and hole up inside.

He was alone and he was scared, of that much Jody was sure. The woman who claimed him had vanished again, which Jody took as a very bad sign. The deputy racked her brain to remember what she had been taught in training about entering a home under circumstances like this. Could they break into the salvage yard to find the boy, or did they need an order from a judge first? She needed more experience. The Sheriff was out of town on vacation and his senior deputy was gone fishing.

Deputy Haines was flipping through an old policy manual. It was their bad luck that the Sheriff and his chief deputy were both out of town at a conference this weekend. More experienced hands had been called in but might not arrive for a while.

Which meant it was up to two newly minted deputies to decide how to proceed.

"I think we can go in. We've got good cause to think the kid is in trouble," Haines concluded, setting the book aside.

"Good." Jody knew that if they had to go to court for a warrant to enter the property, the kid could be long gone by the time they got back. Yellow lights from a tow truck flashed behind their squad cars. Jody raised her hand to beckon Joe forward. His keys jangled in his hands, and he had the gate to Singer Salvage opened in seconds.

The abandoned cars made a maze of hiding places that would take forever to search. Jody moved past them all and made straight for the house. She knocked on the door and called out, "Mr. Singer! Sheriff's Department. If you're home, please answer the door!"

Silence.

"Sam? Are you there?"

More silence.

"This is Deputy Mills with the Sheriff's department. I'm coming in!" Yes, sneaking in might give her a better chance of catching the boy before he could bolt out the back door, but it wasn't an option. Jody remembered this very clearly from training. If she didn't announce herself, the owner of the home had every right to shoot her as an intruder. Jody pushed the door open.

 _Bang_!

Jody didn't see where the shot came from, but she saw the hole it made in the wall next to her shoulder.

"Don't come any closer!"

"Sam, I'm here to help-" Jody's gaze searched the room even though her feet didn't move from the threshold. The barrel of a gun stared at her from the closet door.

"I'm waiting for Bobby!" Sam yelled. "Go away!" The click as Sam cocked the shotgun again rang out across the room.

Jody backed slowly out of the home, keeping her hands raised until she was well out of range of the door. When she turned, she marched back to the squad car and her small team with such a fierce glare that they all straightened at her approach. Even Joe the tow man shifted and squared his shoulders.

"Somebody figure out how to get a hold of Bobby Singer!"

 **Uh-oh! Will Jody be able to get through to Sam? If she does, can she help protect him from a witch? What will John and Bobby learn from the people who have been taking care of Sam for the past few months? And will poor Dean ever get his memories back?**

 **More to come soon! Please review.**


	9. Chasing Our Tails

**Sorry this chapter has taken a while to publish. It was hard to write. This entire story is coming together slowly, but it's coming!**

 **Thank you everyone who is following and favoriting and reviewing!**

 **9: Chasing our tails**

Motel rooms. Bobby didn't know how John Winchester managed to live in them. Each had a different humidity level, a different type of pillow, a different level of firmness to the bed. Bobby liked his own home, with the bed that knew how to fit the achy part of his back and the soft pillow that smelled like rust and gasoline. (Probably because he'd forgotten to take his work hat off more than once before falling asleep.)

Bobby settled into a chair and let out a long sigh. "Well, you were right." His guts twisted at the admission. Not because he minded saying those words to John Winchester, but because of what they meant for Sam. "There was sulphur all over that house and Finklestein showed classic symptoms of demon possession."

"Yes, but the demon is gone so we can't question it." John sounded disappointed.

"Be happy the man got away with his life mostly intact," Bobby retorted.

"I don't get it." Dean had flopped back on the bed, hands tucked under his head. He scowled at the ceiling. "It didn't sound like a demon to me. I mean, yeah, the place stank like rotten eggs, but the way that Finklestein guy was going on I thought he did something really terrible. You know, ate one of the foster kids, or locked them in the basement, or something—he was just kinda... a dick."

 _I called him 'freak,' I singled him out whenever he did anything wrong. I said he was a waste of space, a waste of food. I told him that it was his fault he was all alone in the world, and that we didn't want him here either_. Mr. Finklestein's confession hadn't been has bloody as Bobby had feared, but it was bad in a different way. The damage done couldn't be healed with a band-aid and an anti-bitoic.

"Mean to Sam and no one else," John agreed. "Mean in all the small ways. You know how sensitive Sam can be about those things." John looked up, regret written on his face, as Dean scowled and turned away because _no_ , he didn't know.

Dean didn't remember, but Bobby did. He had seen the way the kids in town treated Sam and Dean when the boys stayed over. He knew how sensitive the youngest Winchester could be to jibes about his hand-me-down clothes, to questions about where his father was, to being called 'freak.' If Sam lived in a home where the adult in charge constantly reminded him that he was a freak, Bobby knew Sam would up and leave sooner rather than later. Which is what happened, as far as anyone could tell. The Finklesteins made Sam miserable, so Sam left.

Which made sense, if they wanted Sam to be unhappy and alone, but it begged a question. If whoever hexed John wanted Sam on his own, why did Sam wind up in foster care to begin with? Was it witches? Or demons?

"They pushed all his buttons and ran him out of a place that should have been safe for him to stay." John's voice sounded tired and defeated. "Sometimes I think they understand Sam better than I do."

It was a rare admission, a look into the thing John feared the most. Not that the demons would kidnap his son, but that somehow, someday, they would convince Sam to join them willingly. Bobby wasn't sure Dean had figured that part out yet, and he certainly wasn't going to say anything.

"It's easy enough to figure out what would make the new kid in town feel unhappy and uncomfortable," Bobby said.

Dean snorted. "Yeah, that ain't rocket science. If demons are douche bags, it would be second-nature. But there are plenty of kids in town to bully. Why pick on Sam? Why kidnap him and make us forget about him?"

"We're still missing an important piece of this puzzle," Bobby said. Dean wasn't wrong. It didn't really make any sense yet.

"The footprints didn't match Mr. Finklestein or his wife. Someone else is involved." John's voice as distant as the wheels churned in his head, trying to make sense of the information they had.

"Was there a second witch in town, and the witch sent the demon to kidnap Sam and then make him miserable enough to run away?" Dean mused out loud.

"You think the demon and the witch are connected?" John asked.

"I thought witches got their power from demons," Dean said.

"They do, but demons can act on their own, too."

"Why would demons care about my little brother?"

John shifted, lifting his head to consider his son for a moment. "Who knows why demons do what they do?" John ran his hand over his face, which was pinched and pale. "Now we've got no leads and no idea which direction Sam went."

"We can talk to the social worker who placed Sam with that family," Bobby said. "If they searched for Sam, they might have more information."

John nodded. "We'll need that FBI badge again, Bobby, or else we're not going to be able to get a hold of anyone until Monday."

o0o

 _Well, I found him_. The witch glared at the squad cars parked in front of Singer Salvage. The hunter's child was inside, or else they wouldn't be making such a fuss. Judging by the frazzled look of the lead officer, the boy was not interested in cooperating with the authorities.

Had they found a back door yet? If this was a hunter's home, there must be more than one escape route. Hunters were a paranoid breed that way. All she had to do was find the exit and use it as an entrance. The boy was oh-so-helpfully keeping all adult assistance at bay. This was going to be her last chance to catch him alone.

She turned to circle the property and came nose-to-nose with a set of fully black eyes staring out of a weather-beaten face. Judging by the stains and the smell, the meatsuit had been homeless before the demon decided to hitch a ride.

The witch took a step back. Demons didn't often pay visits just for a friendly chat. They didn't often visit on their own at all. They had to be summoned, trapped, and tricked into performing whatever service the witch required.

They didn't often hang out inside foster parents just to torment hunter's children, either. What was it about this boy that was so special?

"Agnes! I'm disappointed in you." The demon shook his head sadly. "I practically gift-wrapped that kid for you. He was alone. He was unhappy. He needed a friendly face to step in and whisk him away to a life of incredible evil. What happened?"

"He was a little hard to keep up with," the witch snapped. "You don't seem to be doing any better."

The demon sniffed and straightened his shoulders. "I've got orders. The boss wants us to take a soft touch with this one. Strictly hands-off for now. But I've got some information that might help your cause..."

The witch leaned forward, intrigued by the demon's wicked smile. "Do tell."

o0o

Social workers. John always stayed as far away from them as possible. He didn't care for them and they didn't care for him. They had ideas about how they thought children should be raised, and thought they had the right to force those ideas on the rest of the world. Social workers wanted children to be happy and sheltered from the difficulties of life. John knew his sons could never avoid danger, so he chose to teach them to face it head-on.

Yet his fists clenched at the sight of the woman in business casual slacks and a blouse who waited for them at the Child Protective Services office. She had been tasked with keeping Sam safe, and she had failed.

Of course, she didn't know what Sam needed to be protected from. No one here did. This woman had a haunted look on her face and dark circles under her eyes. She looked like a person who had seen too much, just like any witness John interrogated on a case.

What had happened to put that look in her eye? John's stomach clenched. What had happened to Sam?

"Ms. Vance." Bobby shook the woman's had politely. "Thank you for seeing us after hours."

"You're searching for a missing child. That can't wait until regular business hours. We all want Sam to be safe." She sounded like she meant it, too, but her look turned sour. "Next time, please follow proper procedure and start with child services instead of going directly to the foster home. It makes things easier for everyone."

 _I don't care what's easy for you, I'm going to find my son_. This woman had been in charge of making sure Sam was safe, and she had failed. Telling her so wasn't likely to get them the information they needed; it would only start an argument that would waste more time. So John bit his tongue and let Bobby do the talking. After all, he was the one with the badge so he was the one the social worker would listen to.

"I'll take it into consideration," Bobby replied. His eyes dropped to the manilla folder full of papers in the woman's hands. "Right now, I need to know everything that you remember about Sam. How did he get placed with Child Services?"

Ms. Vance scowled. "This has been an odd case from start to finish, Agent Willis. I've never really seen anything like it before. Sam wasn't removed from a home or found in distress. He was sitting on our front step one morning. He looked like he'd been there for a few hours, waiting for us to open. He told us his name, said that he was all alone, and asked if he could have some breakfast."

"Did he look injured? Did he look like he'd been in a fight? Did he look like he was running from something?" John asked. Witnesses never knew how to share the most simple, most important details.

Ms. Vance shook her head. "No. He was very calm about the entire thing."

That didn't sound like Sam at all. Dean had perfected the art of masking his feelings in a heated moment, but John knew his younger son had never picked up on that skill. If Sam was upset, the world would know it.

"He told you his name?" If anyone had put out a search for Sam Winchester, Bobby or Pastor Jim should have heard about it.

"Just his first name, Sam," Ms. Vance said. "It was the same morning that young woman went missing. Presumed dead. They found blood in her apartment and no trace of her body-"

 _Beep! Beep_!

Bobby frowned down at his pager and slapped the mute button.

"We thought they were connected somehow," Ms. Vance continued without missing a beat. "We thought that Sam saw what happened and ran away, or perhaps he was being abused and was happy to get away. We don't really know what happened because he refused to answer any questions."

"Like maybe he'd forgotten where he came from?" Bobby pressed.

Ms. Vance shook her head. "No. I've been in this business a long time. I know when a child is lying and when they're simply not saying something. Sam knew what happened to that woman, I'll bet my career on it. He simply refused to say a word about it."

"You can't know that, not when you just met him," John said.

Ms. Vance sighed. "Mr. Winchester, you'd be surprised how much I know about a child after a half an hour interview that their parents never even guessed." She quirked an eyebrow at Dean, who shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away, looking spooked at the thought.

"We placed Sam with one of our best families, but it didn't work out well. Mr. Finklestein hasn't been-"

"He hasn't been himself lately," Bobby filled in. "We're aware."

 _Beep! Beep_! "Sorry." Bobby looked down at his pager again. His eyes grew wide when he saw the number. "That's not good."

"Agent Willis?" John growled. Whatever Joe's Towing needed back in Sioux Falls, it could wait.

Bobby scowled and silenced the pager again then gestured for Ms. Vance to continue.

"I assure you, we screen our foster parents carefully. We were actually working on a new placement for Sam." Ms. Vance paused. "That was a little odd as well."

"What happened with Sam's new placement, Ms. Vance?"

"Well, the woman who went missing, her name was Alice Warden. A woman showed up in town a few weeks ago claiming to be Alice's mother Agnes. She also claimed that Sam was Alice's son, therefore he was her grandson, and she wanted to take Sam home with her."

"What?" John snapped. Someone had tried to _legally_ take Sam from his family? The idea was chilling. A monster who stole children, John knew how to deal with. A legal battle to get his son back after another person formally adopted him...John wouldn't know where to start.

Ms. Vance didn't flinch at John's shift in posture. She met him with a cool stare. "I know how to do my job, Mr. Winchester. Agnes wanted us to rush the process, but she also didn't want us to say a word to Sam until it was all final. She refused to see him until she had legal custody of him. I thought it was suspicious."

"So you slowed the process down?" Dean asked.

"I did my research. Agnes is Alice's mother, but I couldn't find a birth record for Sam that connected them. Agnes claimed that Alice had no health insurance and gave birth at home. I told her there still should have been a birth certificate. But since we had no information on Sam at all, the next step was to order a blood test. Sam disappeared just after the doctor took the sample."

"So you did not hand Sam over to this Agnes Warden person?" John said, realizing suddenly that the rumor mill could be wrong. The town could have assumed Sam ran off, when really he was taken away by his new 'legal guardian.'

Ms. Vance shook her head. "No, and I don't think that she kidnapped Sam. Agnes came to me that very day, furious that Sam was gone. I never saw her after that."

"Did you have some idea where Sam went? Did you try to look for him?" John leaned forward anxiously.

"Oh, we tried. We tracked him all the way to Edina, a small town just down the road." Ms. Vance flipped to the back of her file and pulled out a set of crime scene photographs. "We know Sam spent some time in an abandoned house in Edina, but he was gone by the time we got there. I came back here, but the cops in Edina lingered for a little while just in case Sam returned." Ms. Vance pushed the photographs across the desk toward Bobby. "When they stopped answering their radio, another team was sent to check on them. This is what they found."

The photos showed two men with dried blood pooled around their ears, noses, and mouths. They each stared at the camera with a look of horror frozen forever on their dead faces.

"I don't know what Alice and Agnes Warden were mixed up in, but I'm very worried about Sam. Is Agnes even Sam's grandmother?"

"No." John's attention was fixed on the photos. This was no demon kill, this was classic witchcraft. Maybe the demon at the Finklestein's was working with the witch after all. "Do you have any idea where Sam went from Edina?"

Ms. Vance shook her head. "The train station is in Edina. Sam's a smart boy. I'm guessing he hitched a ride far, far away from here."

Leaving no trail for them to follow. The room around him seemed to shrink as John contemplated the vast distance Sam could have traveled by now. He could be anywhere, and they had no clear leads.

o0o

 _Chasing my own tail_. That was how Bobby felt as they pulled back into the motel parking lot. First it was witches. Then it was demons. Then it was witches again. First Sam was safe in foster care, then he was on the run. Sam had asked to be placed in foster care, which made no sense at all. If Sam had no memory of his family, he might ask for help. But why would whoever hexed the Winchesters just leave Sam behind? Why would the witch wait so long to try to claim Sam?

They were running in circles with no clear answers in sight.

Not to mention the pager that kept going off in Bobby's pocket. Now, instead of Joe's number, the readout said '9-1-1.' Not that Bobby had mentioned that to John. The other hunter looked like he was one beep away from shooting the pager and stomping on the remains. John Winchester needed answers. He needed something to kill, and he needed it now.

John jerked the car through the turn into the parking lot and slammed the brakes hard. Bobby grabbed the dash for support and Dean looked alarmed at the rough treatment of the family car. John jumped out of his seat and slammed the door only to slump against the window and drop his head into his hands.

"We'll find him, Dad." Dean was already out the door and at his father's side. "I know you're worried, but you trained me up good so I know you trained Sam too. He knows how to take of himself. He'll be alright. We've still got plenty of possible leads. Someone who works at the train station might remember which direction he went. Or maybe he didn't hop a train at all and he's hiding out close by."

John clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder with a grateful smile. "Maybe. Maybe. But we've got to get a move on now. Get your stuff and let's go."

Dean nodded and went to unlock the motel door.

"We don't have time to go to Edina tonight!" Bobby snapped. "It's too dark to do any investigating once we get there, and none of us have eaten yet. We've already paid for the room, we should stay here."

It was a logical plan. John Winchester was usually a logical man. Until it came to his sons.

"Bobby, we have to move on this as quickly as possible. Sam is-"

"I care about Sam too, dammit! But we can't help him if we run ourselves into the ground. You need food. Dean needs food."

"Yes, please!" Dean flung the motel room door open. "I saw a pizza place down the road."

"And I need to call home," Bobby said.

John scowled. "We don't have time for-"

"Joe's not one to panic for nothing, and the last few pages have come from the Sheriff's Department," Bobby snapped, matching John's irate tone. "You are not the only person who comes to me for help, you know. It will take at least five minutes to check out of here and ten more to go grab a pizza. That's enough time for me to make a call."

"Fine. Dean." John tossed the keys to the Impala to his son. "Get food for all of us and have your bags in the car and ready to go in ten minutes."

Dean caught the keys deftly and nodded. "Yes, sir."

John turned to leave, going to the motel office to settle the bill. Dean looked around at the room and grabbed his bag, which sat still fully packed on top of a chair. "Guess it's a good thing I didn't bother to settle in. What do you want on your pizza, Bobby?"

"Whatever you're having will be fine," Bobby replied. He had already crossed the room to the phone, but he paused for a moment to consider Dean. "Are you doin' ok?"

"Yeah." Dean nodded, but his smile faltered. "Yeah, just hungry." He ducked out the door and the Impala's engine grumbled to life.

Bobby sighed. John, Dean, and Joe. No wonder he felt like he was running in circles. Well, at least whatever problem Joe had for him would be easier to resolve. Right?

Bobby dialed Joe's. The other end of the line picked up before Bobby even heard it ring.

"Bobby! Took you long enough." Joe sounded relieved.

"Sorry, Joe. I'm helping a friend find a missing kid. When I got your first page, I thought it was just a business question, and I haven't got time for that kind of thing right now. Then the Sheriff's department number came up. What's happening there?"

"You're looking for a missing kid?" Joe repeated. "Bobby, there's a kid holed up in your house. No one knows where is parents are, but he's holding a band of deputies off with your shotgun. Dispatch wants to patch you through to the deputy in charge."

"Do they know the kid's name?" Bobby couldn't stop a flicker of hope.

"Uh—Sam, I think."

"Patch me through."

o0o

The shotgun was heavy in Sam's hands. His eyes ached from peering through the narrow slit of the closet door opening. The sun had begun to set and his stomach grumbled. The house creaked around him; noises that had never bothered Sam before now made him twitch.

This was a bad plan. The enormity of exactly how bad this plan was was beginning to catch up with him as the minutes ticked by. Yes, Bobby's closet was a safe space. For the moment. But it wasn't a space where he could stay. There was no food. He couldn't lay down comfortably to sleep. Most pressingly, there was no toilet.

Sam needed to leave the closet. Soon. He couldn't keep up his vigil much longer. Sam could hear the mutter of voices outside as the grown-ups tried to figure out what to do with the kid in the closet.

 _Ring_!

Sam's head spun in the direction of the noise. He waited, but the phone did not ring again. That was odd. Maybe a wrong number?

 _Ring! Ring! Ring! Ring_!

A kernel of hope kindled somewhere deep inside. That was Dad's signal. When he was home alone, Sam was not allowed to answer the phone. If Dad called, he would ring once, hang up, and then call again.

Sam leaned forward, listening as the answering machine picked up. "You've reached Bobby Singer-" A shrill beep cut off the message and Bobby's voice resumed in a new tone, no longer following the script.

"Sam! Dammit, Sam are you there? Pick up the-"

"Bobby!" Sam burst out of the closet and sprinted to the desk where the phone sat, snatching it off the hook. "Bobby is that really you?"

"Sam! You're alive. Are you alright?"

It was him. It was real. Finally, someone Sam knew. Finally, someone who knew him. A familiar voice had never sounded so good. "I'm ok Bobby, but I think I'm in trouble. I-"

"I talked to the deputy. What are you thinking blowing holes in my house?"

"I didn't-" Sam glanced at the bullet hole in the door frame. Bobby really had talked to the deputy. "Bobby, there's a woman here. I think she might be a witch. I don't know what she wants, but she's been following me since—she's been following me for a while and she tried to convince everyone that she's my aunt and I belong to her."

"I heard."

"So I couldn't let anyone in!"

"Yeah, yeah I know." Bobby's tone was soothing now. "Look Sam, I am on my way to you, but it's gonna take a few hours to get there. You need back-up. I want you to let the deputy in."

Sam looked back at the door and saw deputy Mills through the screen, her hands raised, waiting patiently.

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure. We'll be there as soon as we can. Deputy Mills is going to stay with you and help watch your back, alright? She knows I'm on my way, and she knows not to let that other woman near you. Got it?"

"Got it." Sam felt his white-knuckle grip on the shotgun loosen. He wasn't alone anymore. "Bobby, I'm sorry-"

"I'm just glad you're alright, Sam. We'll sort out the rest when we get there. I've gotta get on the road now, but if anything happens, have Joe page me again."

"Yes, sir."

Deputy Mills rapped on the door as Sam hung up the phone. "Can I come in?" Her eyes flicked from Sam to the shotgun still clutched in his hand. He nodded. Deputy Mills pushed open the front door and gave Sam an exasperated scowl. Sam scowled back. Deputy Mills glared at the shotgun in Sam's hands. "You gonna put that down?"

Sam shook his head. "No."

Deputy Mills let out a deep sigh. "Well, this is going to be a long night."

 **Please review!**


	10. On the Way

**10: On the Way**

"Bobby, can I ride with you?" Dean's tone was uncharacteristically hesitant. He peered up through the open window of Bobby's pick-up, somehow looking much younger than he really was. Dean cast a guilty look toward the Impala, as if worried he had betrayed her—or the man behind the wheel.

"Of course." Bobby reached over and threw the door open. Dean clambered in and fixed his eyes on the road ahead, silent and brooding, as Bobby pulled out of the parking lot and followed John to the highway.

Bobby had ridden with the Winchester boys before. He knew Dean enjoyed the road and liked to crank the music and sing along, air-drumming and dancing all the way. The stillness and silence from the passenger seat was unnerving.

They had been so consumed with fear for Sam and the urgent need to find him, neither John nor Bobby had paid much attention to the other boy. Young man, Bobby corrected himself. Dean wasn't a child anymore.

That didn't mean Dean didn't need a little bit of mothering now and then.

"What's on your mind?"

Dean grimaced, pulling his mouth more tightly closed, as if afraid to let the thought out.

"Do you want some music?"

Dean turned suspicious eyes to Bobby. "You hate music."

"Yeah, but you love it. That hex bag shouldn't have changed your personality. I can't remember the last time you rode with me and didn't blast the radio before we were out of park. So spill."

"I'm not—I'm ok." Dean squirmed under Bobby's unconvinced glared. "It's just...I'm not sure I want to find him. My brother. Sam." Dean looked away, hiding his face from Bobby as he said the ugly words.

"Oh?" Bobby kept his tone carefully neutral, ears open, willing Dean to say more.

"I know it's wrong! I know we have to find him. But Dad—Dad was happy. I was happy."

"Yeah, your place over in Iowa seemed real nice."

"It was. It is. It's been good lately, Bobby. For the first time in a long time I feel good. There's this girl I want to ask out. She'd never just fool around, but she's got this really long hair and she knows how to talk back to the teachers without getting into trouble. We could try for something real if we got together, you know? And I've been talking to the wrestling coach. He says there's a space for me on the team when the season starts. The guys on the team are ok, I was looking forward to—Dad said we were going to stay."

"Yeah, and I'm sure he meant it when he said it." That wasn't the problem, and they both knew it. "A home is a nice thing to have."

"I know it's not the nicest place in the world. We don't get half as many TV stations as we would at a motel, and we have to eat our own cooking now 'cause Dad says we don't have enough money to eat out."

Bobby snorted. "I'll bet." No more moving meant no more credit card fraud meant no more free money for the Winchesters.

"Dad's different now, though. As soon as you burned that hex bag, as soon as he remembered Sam-" Dean shook his head and stared out the window for a moment, then turned and fixed determined eyes on Bobby. "What's wrong with Sam?"

Bobby wasn't known to be a man who cried. Years of abuse had taught him to keep things like tears tucked away out of sigh. That didn't stop him feeling his heart tearing to pieces at Dean's words.

"'Aint' nothin' wrong with Sam. He's a good boy. It's just-"

"Demons." Dean glared at the road in front of the them, hands twitching as if he wished he had his gun. "Why do demons care about my kid brother?"

That was the million-dollar question.

"We don't know." Or if John did know, he wasn't telling. "It's like with Finklestein. They possess people near Sam and just hang out, watching. Maybe they give him a hard time. But they don't ever do anything a demon usually does."

Dean focused on the Imapla tearing down the road in front of them. It was all Bobby could do to keep up.

"Whatever they're dong, I don't think I've ever seen Dad this scared."

Interesting, how, "more terrified than he had ever been in his life" and "mad as a bull on a rampage" looked exactly the same on John Winchester.

"He'll settle down once we find Sam."

"No, he won't. I've been wondering why he decided we could stop hunting after so long. I didn't believe him for the first month. But we stayed, and I realized he meant it even if I couldn't figure out why. He was different, and it all started back there." Dean indicated the town they had left behind. "It started when we lost Sam." Dean shook his head." No, we're not going back. We can't."

Bobby couldn't argue the point. There were many hunters, like himself, who kept up a job and a home, but John Winchester didn't have that option. Not if he wanted to keep one step ahead of the demons.

"Do you think I'll ever remember him?"

Bobby let out a sigh. "Without that hex bag, I don't see how."

Dean remained silent for another moment, then reached for the radio controls. Expert fingers fiddled with the tuning knob until he found a rock station and Black Sabbath filled the cab. Bobby scowled, but made no move to turn the volume down.

* * *

The night was still and quiet. The cop cars outside had departed, taking their flashing lights with them. Only deputy Mills remained. She had fallen asleep on the couch after watching a few reruns on _Nick at Nite_ and ensuring that Sam ate a well-rounded dinner. Now her snores were the only sounds in the house.

Sam frowned, blinking as he came awake in the darkness. No. There was another sound. Something had woken him up. He reached for the shotgun. Sam had kept it close all evening, even though the deptuy kept giving it dirty looks while she was cooking the peas.

The floor creaked again, followed by the soft rustle of fabric. A shadow fell across the window-from the inside. Sam pulled the shotgun into a ready position and rose to his feet.

"Go on then little hunter, shoot." The voice was soft, female, and totally self-assured, as if she had no fear of the bullet inside the shotgun barrel. The light in the kitchen flicked on to reveal the woman from before. The one who had tried to stuff a spell in Sam's pocket. The one who had followed him from Missouri. The one who looked eerily like the witch Sam's father had killed so many months ago.

Sam wasn't likely to forget her face, dead eyes staring up at him. Human eyes. It still made him queasy at night.

"I'm not a hunter."

"Oh?" The woman crossed her arms, staring pointedly at the shotgun.

"No! You're an intruder and I have a right to defend myself." Sam spoke as loudly as he could, casting an eye toward deputy Mills. She slept on, oblivious.

"Why do you need to defend yourself? I'm not here to hurt you, Sam." The woman pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat down, perching her purse in her lap. "I'm here to make you an offer."  
"What?" Sam let the shotgun tip sink toward the floor, although he didn't loosen his grip. "What do you mean?"

"You need a place to stay, an adult to look after you until you are old enough to be on your own. Don't you?"

"The hunter who lives here in on his way. He'll help me. I don't need you."

"Don't you? Sam. What do you think will happen when your hunter friend gets here? We both know what they do to witches." Her tone was calm, patient, laying out the pieces of a puzzle and waiting for Sam to see how they connected. As if her conclusion were the most obvious thing in the world.

"I'm not a witch," Sam said.

The woman cocked her head to one side. "Aren't you? I know what you did to your father and your brother. That was a witch's spell. One of _my_ spells, actually. You pulled it off beautifully."

"How did you know that?" Sam could feel his heart hammering in his chest. Tears prickled his eyes as he remembered that night. Snipping his own hair. Tying careful bundles according to the instructions he had found. Moving oh-so-carefully to place the bundles under Dean and Dad's pillows.

Then watching from the other side of the parking lot as they packed up and drove away the next morning without sparing him a second glance.

It had been the only way. The only way to stop hunting. The only way to get away. If he tried to tell Dad he didn't want to hunt, Dad wouldn't listen. If he tried to run away, Dean would just find him. If he tried to explain to Dean, well, Dean would try to make him feel better with a movie or some ice cream, but he'd side with Dad when it came to hunting every time.

Sam felt a pang at the memory of his last night at home, of the fight that had come after the hunt was over. He'd been so desperate for a way out, he hadn't thought about what would happen after.

Hot tears spilled down Sam's cheeks. His father and his brother wouldn't be coming to help him. "What does that have to do with Bobby?"

"He's a hunter. What do you think he will do when he finds out what you did?" The witch pointer her finger and him, raised her thumb, and pulled back on an invisible trigger.

 _She stopped being just human when she started using witchraft_. Dad's words rang in Sam's head, and he shivered. "Bobby wouldn't-" Bobby hated monsters and spirits and much as Dad did. Bobby had killed witches too.

The woman gestured to Deputy Mills who still had not woken, hadn't even stirred. "Why do you think he made sure there was a guard here to keep you from running away?"

Sam stared at the deputy's khaki uniform, her golden badge, the gun in its holster. "She's here to protect me from _you_. Bobby's my friend-"

"What does a hunter do if his friend is bitten by a werewolf?"

Sam didn't dare speak the answer out loud, but he thought of Arty Comey. The man had a friendly smile and nimble fingers. He made Dean and Sam dream catchers and played hopscotch with them before he drove off with Dad to take down a werewolf.

Dad came back with Arty's body in the trunk, a bite mark on his arm and a bullet hole in his heart.

"People like you and me, Sam. They don't see us as human."

"It was only one little spell," Sam whispered. One little spell he wished desperately he had never put together. Within a week, he had gone back to the motel and searched the room. He had searched the garbage. But the hex bags were gone.

"Oh, Sam, you're capable of so much more than one little spell! Most witches have to borrow or steal their magic. But you-Sam, you've got something special inside you."

Sam's head was spinning. Too many thoughts left nothing making sense except the growing pit of fear that threatened to swallow him whole. "What? What do you mean?"

"Your father knows it. Why do you think he favors your brother? You've got something special in you, Sam. If you come with me, I could show you how to use it. You could be great."

Sam raised the shotgun again. "I don't want to kill people. I just want to be normal."

"Oh, Sam." The woman sighed and shook her head. "You can never be normal. But you can be safe. I've been evading hunters for years. None have found me yet. Come hide away with me. We'll have a nice little house in a nice little town. You can go to school and have friends like a normal boy. All I ask is that you help me out a bit now and then."

"Help you?" Sam shook his head. "With what?"

"Being a witch isn't all about killing people, Sam. There's so much more to it. Let me teach you."

Sam shook his head and took a step back. The shotgun came up again, his finger firmly on the trigger. "No. You need to leave now."

The woman sighed, picked up her purse, and rose to her feet. "Oh, Sam. We could have made a great partnership. Too bad. But your father killed my daughter. I can't let you live." Her fist reached into her purse.

"No!" Sam yelled and squeezed the trigger. It locked under his fingers, refusing to budge. Sam felt his stomach heave with relief and fear. He didn't want to kill, but he didn't want to die. Sam clutched the useless weapon, hands shaking.

The woman tut-tutted. "Now, now, Sam. Did you think I would let you hurt me?" She pulled a gun from her purse and pointed it at Sam's chest. "It's a shame, but-"

"You get away from him!" Deputy Mills was finally awake, finally on her feet. She stepped between Sam and the witch, gun raised, and fired a shot without a moments hesitation. The witch's body staggered under the impact of the bullet. For a brief moment she stared at the hole in her chest, then collapsed back onto the floor.

Deputy Mills sniffed scornfully and put the gun back in her holster. "Boss doesn't want the kid dead yet." Her voice sounded harsh, different than before. She turned and Sam jumped back with a gasp. Deputy Mill's eyes were solid black. "You got something special alright, kid." She smiled, and then went to the couch to lie back down. The deputy closed her eyes and opened her mouth. Black smoke poured out of the lips, darted across the room, and dived into the witch's mouth.

Deputy Mills snored on. On the floor, the witch opened her eyes and sat up. She poked the bullet hole in her chest, shrugged, and rose to her feet.

Sam dropped the shot gun and scrambled across the room toward the salt bag that Bobby kept by the door for icy days.

"Aw, kid, I ain't gonna hurt you. Like I said, you're special. See you around." The witch-or whatever it was—stepped past Sam, opened the door, and walked out into the night.

* * *

John knew something was wrong the moment he pulled into Singer Salvage's gravel lot. There was no squad car waiting for them in the drive. Bobby's truck pulled in close behind, but John was already out of the Impala and pounding up the steps to the front door. He yanked on the knob, but the door wouldn't open. John stumbled back with a huff to give Bobby space to get through with his keys.

"Since when do you lock your door, Bobby?"

"Since I planned to be gone for a while," Bobby snapped.

Dean lingered by the truck, a pained look on his face. It caught John off guard, and for a moment he paused to consider his oldest son. Dean still could not remember Sam, likely would never remember Sam.

If they could not find the hex bag, there was no way to break the curse. Without his memory of his brother, Dean was just an outsider watching the drama unfold around him.

What would Dean think of Sam, once they met? Would he bond with his younger brother again? Without his memories, could John trust Dean to be the guardian Sam needed while their father was gone?

What would Sam think, when he realized Dean could not remember him?

John turned at the sound of the opening door. Bobby stepped into the house, eyes searching the front room warily.

"Sam! Deputy Mills!"

John reached out to touch the bullet hole in the wall near the door frame. Sam really had nearly blasted the deputy into the next life.

Sam did not answer Bobby's call. No one did. The house had an empty feel.

"There's blood on my floor that I didn't put there," Bobby said in that deceptively soft tone of his.

John followed Bobby's nod to the red stains on the floor. He knew the color of dried blood too well. This was a trail of small spatters, the slow drip of a wounded body dragged across the room.

"Sam!" John raised his voice, using his most commanding tone. He didn't expect an answer, but still he yelled, "Sam, answer me!"

John heard no response, but his nose twitched with the rising awareness of the smell of sulfur. It was a smell he would never forget. It was the smell he had first encountered when he hovered over Sam's crib and saw his wife's blood on the sheets. He hadn't been able to save Mary, but he'd vowed to protect Sam at all costs.

What would he say to her if he failed?

Without saying a word, Bobby and John split up, each sweeping a different side of the house. There was no one inside.

"Hey Dad!" Dean had made it inside now. He stood by the fridge, staring at a post-it note there. "Uh—I think this is for us."

John snatched up the tiny scrap of paper. "Had some trouble last night. We are both fine. Meet us at the Sheriff's office. Signed Deputy Mills."

"Balls!"

John would have chosen much more colorful language, but he agreed with the sentiment. "Let's go."

Bobby nodded and Dean followed them both back out the door. They all crowded into the Impala and John drove to the next stop on this endless hunt. When they reached the Sheriff's office, would they finally find Sam, or would they be too late?

* * *

 **Why aren't Sam and Jody at Bobby's? Will Dean ever get his memories back? Will John or Bobby figure out what Sam did? There's still plenty more to come.**

 **Please review!**


	11. Reunion

**Sorry it has been so long between updates. I hope you are still enjoying the story. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and followed or favorited this story!**

 **11: Reunion**

"He's alright. The deputy wouldn't have left a note if he wasn't." Bobby's tone was meant to be reassuring, but he didn't sound like he entirely he believed his own words.

"Everything is not alright, they would have been waiting for us as planned if it was." John slipped through traffic with practiced ease. He left a string of honking, cursing drivers in his wake, but he didn't care. "Dean, I want you to have a gun and iron ready."

"Yes, sir." Dean began to checking the bag of weapons at his side.

"We need to know what's going on before we threaten anyone." Bobby's tone held a warning. "I have to live here after you leave, you know."

"Got it." Dean selected the smallest crowbar and settled it under his jacket so that no one would know it was there until the time was right.

John looked at Dean's image in the rear-view mirror. Dean glanced up and paused when he caught his father's gaze. John gave him a silent nod of appreciation. There were no words to communicate how much he needed Dean's rock-solid reliability. His eldest son was always there, always ready with whatever was needed. Even now. Dean settled a packet of salt in his pocket and handed a handgun over the seat to John.

"Maybe you should let me take the lead on this," Bobby said. "I know these people."

John didn't answer. He parked the car, slammed the door, and pushed his way into the Sheriff's office, eyes sweeping the room. Looking for a threat. Looking for his son.

The woman at the front desk stared at them wide-eyed, jaw dropping. "Mr. Singer!" She reached out to the intercom button and called out, "They're here!" She waved them urgently toward the door that led to the Sheriff's team.

A small cheer went through the room as John opened the door. It was a happy sound, not threatening, not foreboding. It said that all was well in the word. Finally.

Except there was no mop of unruly hair bounding through the desks to greet him, no shout of "Dad!" or "Dean!" to tell him which direction to look. There was no sign of a child at all, only a young deputy with an ice packed pressed to her eye and a footprint on the shoulder of her khaki uniform. The imprint of a child-sized shoe. The woman looked like she wasn't sure if she wanted to join the cheer or punch Bobby in the nose.

"Bobby Singer! Finally!"

"Deputy, what happened? I thought you were staying at my place."

"Where's my son?" Explanations could wait. John needed to know which direction to turn next.

"In a holding cell." At John's growl she added, "He's perfectly safe and completely uninjured. Well." She lifted the ice pack and tossed it onto the desktop, revealing a puffy red ring around her eye. "No more injured than me."

"Why is he in a holding cell?" Bobby's tone was edging toward impatience now.

"Did my brother do that to your face?" Dean sounded almost proud.

"Why did Sam feel the need to do that do your face?" John's hand drifted toward the gun tucked inside his jacket.

Deputy Mills raised her eyebrows and waited until there was silence. She nodded to John. "You must be Sam's father."

John nodded, his glare murderous.

"I see the resemblance." Deputy Mills seemed unfazed by John's glare or attack-ready stance. She fetched a ring of keys from her desk and led them across the room toward a heavily alarmed door. "Sam kicked me in the face, yes. No, that's not why he's in a cell. Sam was trying to leave. He was halfway out the window when I caught him by the heels. I thought we could keep a better eye on him here."

"Why was he trying to get away from you?" John didn't care how many law enforcement officials were watching. If this woman had hurt his son-

"I don't know." The deputy talked as she walked. "I made dinner, we watched TV, Sam refused to tell me anything about himself but we had a nice talk anyway. I thought we were getting along fine. Sam fell asleep, so I closed my eyes. The next thing I know, it's 2 am and Sam is halfway out the window." Deputy Mills paused at the locked door. "There was blood on the floor, my gun wasn't in the holster, and there's a bullet missing. Sam didn't tell me what happened."

John's hands stopped their drift toward his gun and hung still at his side. The gun would be useless if she had been possessed. There was little reason to think the demon was still here. John didn't know the woman, but Deputy Mills seemed 100% herself.

"I don't know how I slept through a weapon's discharge."

Bobby leaned forward, sniffing, and brushed a bit of yellow power off of Deputy Mills' collar. "It can happen to the best of us."

"No." The deputy's tone was uncompromising and she fixed Bobby with a stern glare. "It really shouldn't. What is this kid mixed up in, Bobby?"

John Winchester was not going to waste time evading and deflecting the deputy's questions. He stepped between them and nodded to the locked door. "I want to see my son. Now."

Deputy Mills frowned, clearly wanting more, but she unlocked the door and held it open. They stepped into a long hallway lined with cells. The back wall was made of concrete, the other two walls and doors made of iron bars just like in the old west movies. Sam sat on a cot in the cell closest to the door. He was hunched over with a sharp scowl on his face and a scrape across his cheek.

Sam's head jerked up and his eyes flew wide in recognition when the door opened. "Dad? Dean!"

A wave of relief hit John at the sound of his son's voice, at the sound of that word. He wanted to snatch the keys from the deputy's hands, and he did snatch the door as soon as it was unlocked. John pushed the bars aside, reached down, and scooped Sam into his arms. He didn't bother to stop the tears that poured down his cheeks. The world around him vanished and for just one moment he allowed himself to savor the fact that his son was here, and he was safe.

Then John pulled back to get a good look at his son. He cupped his hand around Sam's injured eye. "Are you alright?"

Sam nodded, but he was still tense. "You...you know who I am?"

"Sorry, Sam. I guess I forgot to mention that." Bobby was standing in the doorway next to Dean, looking at the older boy with concern. Dean had one hand on the wall and one hand on his head, a pained grimace covering his face.

John turned back to Sam, wrapping his arm around the boy's shoulders and pulling him close again. "It's alright, Sam. We broke the spell. I'm back, and you're coming home." John squeezed Sam's shoulder. "We're going to figure out why this happened, and everything will be ok."

Sam squirmed in John's grip, craning his neck to look at his brother. "Dean?"

The soft plea was a lead weight that hooked John's elation and dragged it crashing down. He looked at Dean again, concern for his oldest growing. Was the spell somehow making Dean sick, now that he and Sam were in the same room? "I'm sorry, Sam. We only found on hex bag. We couldn't-"

"Sammy." Dean's tone was charged with sudden recognition. He pushed himself away from the wall, rushed across the room, and elbowed his father out of the way to hug his brother. "Sammy, are you alight?"

"Yeah. I'm ok."

"Dean?" John hardly dared to hope.

Dean turned to his father with a bright smile. "It's ok, Dad. I remember. I remember everything."

o0o

"I still can't believe it." Bobby plunked two sodas and two beers on the table next to the giant pot of chili. "I've never heard of someone being able to break through a witch's hex on sheer willpower alone."

"It wasn't willpower, Bobby." Dean said. "It was just—I don't know. I saw Sam and the memories decided the couldn't stay gone anymore. It's like when you're trying to see the picture in one of those 3-D books, and you finally hit the right angle. Seeing Sam just filled in the gaps."

Sam's skin crawled with goose-bumps. He had almost lost his brother forever. Sam shivered, and Dean's arm wrapped around his shoulder.

"I guess that spell wasn't as strong as we thought."

"I guess." Bobby started spooning up chili and handed the bowls around the table.

"So where are we going now?" Sam asked, looking at his Dad. He knew better than to think they would be in Sioux Falls for long. Dad would probably find another hunt before nightfall.

"We're not going anywhere until we clean up this mess," John said.

"Oh." Sam's voice was so small he wasn't sure he had made a sound at all. They had told him all about how Bobby called Dad and they tracked down the hex bags on the drive back here. It would be Sam's turn next, to tell his story.

To explain why he had been gone for three months without calling anyone for help. To tell Dad who had cast that spell to begin with.

Bobby fetched a rag from the cabinet and set to work on the blood stain on the floor. The witch's words rang in Sam's head. _What do you think he'll do when he finds out what you did?_

He couldn't let them find out what had happened.

"What happened that night, Sam? Who did this? How did you get away?"

Sam pulled the bowl of chili close, twirling his spoon through the beans and beef to avoid looking at anyone else. "I don't want to talk about it."

Would they let him be?

 _You've got something special kid_. What was that thing, made of black smoke, that could take control of a person's body? What could it want with him?

"Sam, we need to know what happened so we can take care of it. Was it a witch or a demon?"

The witch. Sam latched onto the thought with sudden clarity. Dad, Dean, Bobby, they all thought that the witch had done this. Why wouldn't they? "The witch is dead."

"You killed her? Did you burn her body?"

"The deputy's missing bullet," Bobby said.

Sam blinked. What did they already know? How could he find a good lie if they already knew half the truth?

The best lies are built on truth. That was what Dean always said. Sam didn't have to make anything up. He just had to leave out a few things.

"Yeah, the deputy shot her and then-" Sam paused, remembering the sight of the black eyes in the witch's dead face. "Dad, what does a demon look like?"

"A demon can look like anyone or anything," John said. "Sam, do you think you saw a demon?"

Sam swallowed hard and nodded. "Yeah, I think I did. It took the witch away." Dad slumped back in his chair, scowling. "Damn. It could be anywhere by now, look like anyone."

"It won't come back, right? The witch is dead, the demon is gone, and it's over."

"We'll see about that," Dad said. "We need to know what it wanted. Sam, tell me what happened in Missouri."

Sam knew that tone. Dad wasn't going to be distracted. He wasn't going to stop asking questions until he got what he wanted. Sam shook his head. "No! Don't want to talk about it."

"Sam-"

"No." Sam shoved his chair away from the table and bolted for the door. He fumbled with the latch.

"Sam! You don't go anywhere alone." It was an order Sam couldn't disobey. He yelled at the door, then spun around and ran up the steps to the second floor. There was a closet with a nice hiding space inside, and Sam slammed the door behind him as hard as he could. He heard Dean clatter up the stairs after him, heard his brother banging on the door. Sam shivered. What would Dean say if he knew the truth?

o0o

The Winchesters were back. Dean was tending to his little brother upstairs and John had gone to patrol the perimeter of Bobby's land, looking for demon signs.

In short, it was just like any other day when the Winchesters paid Singer Salvage a visit. Except that Sam was still scared of something, and Bobby couldn't put his finger on what. The information he had didn't add up, and it wasn't like Sam to hide things from them. Something else had happened while he was gone.

Something that had the kid so scared he wouldn't talk about.

But what? Bobby had been wracking his brain for an answer all afternoon while John helped him out with a new project. Neither had a good idea, beyond that fact that Sam had witnessed his first demon possession. After all, if the demon had inhabited the deputy's body, what was to stop it taking over someone else in this house?

Bobby looked up at the Key of Solomon on the ceiling, the paint still not quite dry. He would have to explain it to Sam, if the boy ever agreed to come back downstairs. No demon would be able to walk freely through this home again.

"Bobby?" The stairs creaked and Dean's face came into view over the railing. "You got anything for dinner?"

"Sure." Bobby had long ago shelved the chili, but he moved to the kitchen and pulled out sandwich fixings. "Just for you, or is Sam hungry too?"

Dean shook his head, his expression pinched with worry. "Nah, Sammy doesn't want anything."

"Did he tell you anything?"

Dean shook his head again. "No. He's mad at us, and I don't blame him. We left him behind!"

"You were under a spell. You didn't know to look for him."

"I know. I just—I feel like I should have known. You know?"

"Eat your sandwich." Bobby set the plate down in front of Dean and fetched some soda to go with it, then joined him at the table. "Everything will sort itself out. Sam's had a hard time. Give it some time, he'll come around and everything will be alright."

"It's not alright! He's grown three inches, Bobby. He needs new shoes. Those stupid Finklestein's didn't bother to take care of him at all. I wish I could go back there and-"

"We'll get the real monster here, Dean. Your dad's out looking for it now."

"Yeah." Dean settled down a little at that. "Dad will find it and kill it."

There was no killing a demon, but now didn't seem to be the time to mention that to Dean. "How are you doing, Dean? On the way here, it sounded like you were pretty happy living in Iowa and now that Sam is back I don't think your Dad-"

"No, we can't go back there," Dean said, shrugging off the idea. "If something's after Sam, we have to keep moving. We have to find the thing that killed Mom and stop it before it can come back."

There it was. Every change the hex-bags had brought tossed out the window at the sight of Sam.

"I didn't mean it, Bobby. You know that, right?" Dean fixed Bobby with an intense gaze. "I didn't mean anything I said on the way here. That was just the spell talking."

 _You meant every word, boy_. But there was no way Dean could let himself believe that, so Bobby just nodded. "Yeah, I know."

"Could I have a sandwich to take up to Sam?"

Bobby nodded again and pulled the bread and meat back out of the fridge. The Winchester were back, and nothing had changed.

 **What will John do if he finds out what Sam did? What will Sam do if he finds out that John and Dean have retired from hunting?**

 **Please Review!**


	12. Moving Forward

**12: Moving Forward**

Dean opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, waiting for the familiar feeling to hit him. The sense that something was missing. It didn't come. The space around him didn't feel empty anymore. Dean turned to look at the sleeping bag next to his. Sam was curled up in a ball, wheezing slightly as he slept. A wide smile spread across Dean's face. _Sam. My brother_.

Dean checked the clock. Dad would expect them to be up and ready to go soon. Dean shimmied out of his sleeping bag and hurried to shower before Sam woke up. The way he always did. After he got Sam up for his turn in the shower, Dean went to the kitchen to cook up breakfast. He set out three plates, then added one for Bobby.

The routine felt smooth, right. There were no more gaps, no more missing spaces, no more reflexes that didn't make sense. Everything was as it should be. Dean started to hum a little LED Zeppelin, bouncing his head to the beat. The past three months felt like a strange dream, almost as if it hadn't been real. It would be so easy just to forget it all.

Except that Sam's face was still red from crying himself to sleep last night. Dean's humming skipped a beat. No, they couldn't just pretend it hadn't happened.

They needed to figure out what had happened. Who kidnapped Sam? Why?

 _What did they do to my baby brother that was so bad Sam refuses to talk about it_? Dean's fists clenched. When he found out, there would be hell to pay. For now, all he could do was fry bacon and flip pancakes. He also added a pot of oatmeal to the stovetop. For some reason, Sam liked the stuff.

"What do you mean, you're leaving now?" Bobby's voice carried from the back porch. "John, this case isn't solved yet. There's still a demon out there, and we still don't know what really happened to Sam back in Missouri."

"We've got him back, that's enough. It doesn't matter if it was the witch or the demon. It doesn't matter if they were working together or against each other. There are demons signs all around this town. Which means we need to be somewhere else." The familiar sound of the Impala's hood slamming shut followed John's voice. Dad was doing his usual pre-travel checks on the car.

"No demon is getting in my house again, John. You helped me put up the wards."

"It doesn't matter, Bobby. I want Sam as far away from that thing as possible."

"I get that it's important to keep Sam away from those black-eyed monsters, but I also think we need more information before the drop this. There's something here that doesn't add up. What else happened the night Sam vanished? You said you two had a fight."

John's tone turned sour. "What are you implying, Bobby?"

"I don't know, I'm just saying that we need to know more. Sam is still scared of something-"

"He's scared because a demon walked into your house, Bobby. The best thing to do is get Sam as far away from that as possible."

"The best thing to do might be to explain a few things to both of your boys, John. If Sam and Dean knew a bit more about demons-"

"I will decide what they need to know and when they need to know it," John said. "We'll be on the road as soon as we finish breakfast."

The skillet hissed, and Dean turned his attention back to the stove top. He dumped the breakfast out into four plates and sat at the table, staring at his steaming food but not seeing it.

He was back in that motel room in La Plata, Missouri, the last night Sam had been with them.

 _Dean leaned back in the bed, flicking through channels on the TV. It was the end of the summer and the only thing on was reruns that Dean had seen several times before. He wanted to go out, but Dad wouldn't allow it. Not with a freshly dislocated shoulder, now popped back into place and settled in a sling. The pain killers Dad had doled out were making Dean a little fuzzy anyway. He might not make it too far if he did try to go out._

 _Dad was sitting in the corner, hunched over a stack of books they had taken from the witch's apartment. He had burned everything else, but had been pouring over these ever since they got back to the motel. Dean looked for his little brother. Sam had been subdued ever since they got back from the hunt, and he had avoided eye contact with Dean. When Dad had declared that Dean needed a quiet evening to rest his injury, Sam had practically turned mute. He was curled up in the corner, as far away from his family as he could get while still sharing the same room. There was a pillow at his back and a book in his lap._

 _Wasn't there always a book in Sammy's lap? He even had a pad of paper out to take notes as he flipped through the pages. As if this was homework, even though school didn't start for several more weeks. The book was thick and old and looked terribly boring._

 _"Hey, Sammy? Wanna play a game?" Dean had a deck of cards in his bag and he was trying to teach his little brother the finer points of poker so that they could team up when hustling. Sam preferred battleship, he had an old travel set in his duffle._

 _Sam shrugged, which wasn't really an answer, and leaned closer into his book._

 _Dean rolled closer to his brother, squinting at the book. Everything was a little hazy tonight. "Whatcha readin'? Something for your summer reading list?"_

 _"No, I finished that last month." Show-off. "Dean, are we sure witches get their power from demons? Because a lot of the spells in here don't say anything about them. It looks a little bit like a chemistry project, mixing bits of things together."_

 _Dad's head snapped up, his eyes narrowed on his youngest son. "Sam? What are you reading?" John counted up the books in his stack and frowned. "Sam?"_

 _Sam's spine straightened and he snapped the book closed. "You're reading them!"_

 _"I am doing research so we'll be prepared if we ever come across a demon. I'll teach you what you need to know when you need to know it." John held out his hand, demanding Sam return the book to him without saying a word._

 _"But Dad!" Sam climbed to his feet to face their father, but kept a firm hold of the book. "You make me do research all the time and now I can't read just one book?"_

 _"This is a very bad book, Sam."_

 _"It didn't look that bad to me. Some of the spells in there looked kind of useful." Dean winced at Sam's words. Why did the kid always have to say the thing that he knew would upset Dad the most?_

 _"Come on, Sammy! Dad can't tell when you're teasing the way I can." Dean butted in, trying to calm things down before they boiled over. If the fight got bad, both Sam and Dad would sulk for days._

 _Dad wasn't going to back down from this one, though. This wasn't about Sam being slow to get ready for a hunt or refusing to to practice drills so that he could read a book. This was much more serious than that. "Sam, this is witchcraft and I don't want you anywhere near it."_

 _"You're reading them!"_

 _"That's different."_

 _"How?" Sam crossed his arms and glared at his father. "How is it different?"_

 _Dean closed his eyes, wishing he could be anywhere but here. Then he opened them again and levered himself upright on the bed despite the sharp pain that rammed through his shoulder when he moved. Someone might need to break this up soon, and that someone would have to be Dean. He watched, waiting to see if he would be needed and hoping he would not._

 _"It just is," John said._

 _Sam's eyes narrowed and his glare deepened. This argument was going nowhere good, and fast._

 _"Sammy, you gotta trust Dad! He knows what's best."_

 _"I don't want to just follow orders, I want to understand what is happening!"_

 _"Sam! Your brother got hurt today because you didn't follow orders." Dad's tone was sharp, leaving no room for further argument._

 _Sam's defiant expression collapsed and his eyes flew to his big brother. "I didn't mean—I was trying to help!"_

 _"And it got your brother hurt."_

 _Sam's jaw clenched, and he looked away._

 _"Give me the book Sam." John held out his hand again, and Sam handed over the book. "It's getting late now, I think it's time you boys went to bed." Dad gathered up the books, tucked them under his arm, and left._

 _"I'm sorry, Dean. I guess I really messed up." Sam's voice had that scratchy quality it always got when he was trying to hold back tears._

 _"I'm fine, Sam." Dean gave his brother his most convincing smile, but it may have been a bit wobbly. The painkillers were making everything wobbly. "It'll be ok. You'll know to follow orders next time."_

 _"Next time?" Sam scrubbed his hand over his eyes and shook his head. "I'm gonna get ready for bed." Sam gathered up his notepad and retreated to the bathroom._

Sam hadn't come out of the bathroom for over an hour, and Dad had been gone far longer than that. When he returned, the books were gone.

It didn't seem important. Clearly, Dad didn't think it was important. But Dean knew from experience that the smallest detail that a witness thought didn't make any difference at all could be the key to solving a case. Bobby ought to know. Maybe he could see something that Dean and Dad had missed.

o0o

Logic. It was a tricky ally, absolutely necessary but always willing to stab you in the back. Facts had a coldness about them that pulled no punches. Bobby lined up the facts as he knew them, and the resulting picture left him feeling like all the air had been knocked from his lungs.

Sam wouldn't do that. The panic that had driven Bobby and John these past few days, Sam wouldn't do that to them. He was a good kid. He loved his dad and his brother. He wouldn't.

Denial was a friendly monster. It smiled at you right at first, made you feel warm and comfortable. But in the end it always betrayed you. Bobby had learned to dispense with denial long ago.

Which left him with an uncomfortable conclusion: Sam had run away. Dean's story proved that Sam had access to recipe for the hex bag. It also explained why the youngest Winchester had waited so long to call anyone for help and why they couldn't find evidence that a witch or a demon had been in La Plata the night Sam vanished.

The simplest answer was, they hadn't.

Which left Bobby with a problem and very little time to decide what to do. John had left to run an errand in town with strict instructions that Bobby was not to take his eyes off Sam.

For now, Sam didn't seem to mind being confined inside. Bobby found him in the library, curled up on the sofa under the window, pouring over a book. A book about demons. A book the boy hadn't picked up until his father left.

Bobby pulled over a chair and settled down with a groan. "So, Sam, I got a question for you." Sam's eyebrows snapped down in a scowl, but Bobby raised a hand to forestall his protest. "I know you don't want to talk about what happened, but I just need to know one thing. You weren't hexed, were you?"

"Hexed?" The way Sam's eyes grew wide at the question was almost answer enough. His gaze shifted, a guilty suspect trying to decide which answer would be the least suspicious.

"You mean, did I forget about Dad and Dean the way they forgot about me?" Answer a question with a question. Classic stall tactic.

"That's right. The social worker in La Plata said that you knew everything that happened." Would he try to deny it?

Sam's mouth dropped open in surprise. "I didn't tell her anything!"

"Sometimes what you don't say counts just as much as what you do say."

Sam's mouth snapped shut, then opened again but no sound came out. He was stuck. "I—she-"

"If you were hexed, you wouldn't have been able to remember me or come to me for help." Bobby dropped his last line of reasoning down neatly and waited for Sam's reaction, hoping the kid wouldn't spot the gap in his logic. The hex bag could have made Sam forget his father without forgetting Bobby, just as John had forgotten Sam but not Bobby. Thankfully Sam was a bit too busy trying to keep his secret to catch the slip.

"I didn't forget. No one hexed me."

There it was, the confirmation of what Bobby had begun to suspect. Which begged the next question. "If no one hexed you, why didn't you come for help sooner?"

Sam looked away.

"No one kidnapped you, did they?"

"What do you mean, Bobby? Someone hexed Dad-" Sam's knuckles had turned white as his grip on his soda tightened. His eyes darted toward the door as if contemplating his escape.

"You had a good long look at that witch's spell book, and her specialty was memory charms." Bobby was glad he had seated himself between the boy and the door. Sam wasn't in a good position to run away from this conversation.

Sam's eyes grew even wider, and darted toward the escape route again. Bobby suddenly realized that Sam wasn't afraid of the demon or the witch, he was afraid of the hunter in front of him.

"I won't do it again. I swear I won't!" Sam's voice was shrill with fear. "I didn't hurt anybody, I didn't want to hurt anyone."

"Easy, easy!" Bobby put a hand on Sam's shoulder, meaning to comfort him, but the boy flinched. "What do you think is going to happen, Sam?"

"Hunters kills witches." His voice was a whisper.

The words hit Bobby like a knife in the back. Could the boy really think his own friends and family would turn on him? Of course he could. Some hunters would.

"Yeah, hunters kill witches. A kid who made one dumb move ain't a witch." Bobby squeezed Sam's shoulder tight. "That's how I see it and that's how your Dad will see it." After a moment, he added, "But don't go telling no one else."

Sam shook his head. No, he knew better than that. For a moment Sam toyed with the bottle in his hands and gave Bobby a considering look out of the corner of his eye. The boy had another question, one he wasn't sure he should ask.

"What else happened?" Bobby prompted. "What happened when that witch caught up to you?"

"Nothing. Nothing important. But the demon-" Sam paused. "The demon said I have something special. What do you think that could mean, Bobby? Why would—why would a demon save my life?"

"The demon saved your life?" Bobby repeated.

Sam shifted away from him again and nodded. Fear was at war with curiosity, but this was Sam, so curiosity won. "The demon only came when the witch tried to kill me, and it said that I had something special and that the boss doesn't want me dead yet."

The boss?

"I think there was one in Missouri, too." Now that Sam had gotten started, it seemed he wasn't going to stop. "There was this funny smell the whole time I was there, and I didn't know what it was. There was the same smell here, but only after the demon showed up."

"That would be sulphur. It's a yellow powder, they say it's all over hell. Demons track it everywhere." Bobby recited the simple fact without really thinking about it. He mind was full of other things.

"Mr. Finklestein knew things about me that he shouldn't have. It was just little things. Sometimes it was things that I know no one could have seen-" Sam frowned. "He said he'd been watching me, only I didn't think that was possible. I just thought he was a jerk and he was really good at guessing. You know how you can read people and guess what to say to freak them out? But then the demon came, and-" Sam shook his head. "That's just crazy, right Bobby? Demons are just evil spirits that do nasty stuff. They wouldn't just sit around and spy on someone."

"Yeah, you're right. Demons like chaos and blood."

"They also wouldn't save my life."

Bobby couldn't argue with that. "Why don't you want to tell your dad or your brother any of this?"

Sam's face fell. "They won't like it."

Bobby sighed. No they would not. "Why did you run away? Are things really that bad with you and your dad?"

"No! I just—I didn't want to do it anymore. I don't like hunting." Sam frowned and looked up at Bobby. "Don't tell them. Don't tell Dad any of this."

"Sam, your dad needs to know."

"No he doesn't!"

Bobby grimaced. He did not like the idea of getting between two Winchesters. "I won't if you make me a promise."

"Promise what?" Sam asked cautiously.

"Next time you feel like you have to leave home, you come to me. Don't go off on your own."

For a moment Sam's expression was stubborn, as if he took offense at the idea of limiting his choices. But he nodded, and Bobby believed he meant it. That left one problem solved, but a whole new heap to tackle.

The fact that the demon had stepped in to save Sam didn't trouble Bobby as much as it might. It only confirmed what they already knew; the demons wanted something from Sam. Someday, they would come for him. But not today. There were no new worries there. The only problem was that now Sam knew. He knew the demons were watching him. He knew the demons were interested in him, thought he was 'special.'

Whatever 'special' meant. A boy like Dean would have shrugged it off and gotten on with his life. Sam was not like Dean, and while that didn't mean they loved him any less, it could be a source of great frustration to anyone who tried to look after him. Sam always was a deep little kid. The wheels inside his head were always turning, going who-knows-where. What would Sam make of the demon's words?

Nothing good.

o0o

"Here you go, Dean." John placed the shiny new cell phone in Dean's hand. He still couldn't believe they had made these things so small, and so cheap. It wasn't that long ago, a shoe in one's phone was a spy-movie fantasy of the future. Now, the phone was significantly smaller than a shoe. John watched Dean's expression light up, and allowed himself a small smile. It was always a pleasure to give his boys something that excited them or made them happy. Thankfully, Dean was easy to please.

"Awesome!" Dean pulled the antenna up, down, then up again. He started pressing buttons, eyes dancing. "Wow, this has a game on it!"

"Remember, Dean. This is a tool, just like your shotgun or your knife. You are to take care of it and make sure it is in working condition at all times so you have it when you need it. If I call, I expect an answer."

Dean's grin flattened immediately. Time to get down to business. "Yes, sir."

John handed over the charger and owner's manual. "You have 120 minutes every month. If you use them up, you find the money to refill them. Battery life is three hours."

"Three hours? Who would spend three hours on the phone?" Dean stared at the tiny piece of technology in his hands, then grinned again. "Riley's been begging his parents for one of these. He's gonna flip." Dean's eyes were alight with possibilities.

"You're not going back to school at Pella, Dean." John broke the news as gently as he could, and watched Dean's expression fall again. John's heart fell with it. In these past few months, he had seen a new side of his son. He had seen what Dean could have been if Mary had never died, if they had never become hunters. The way he had worked to get his grades up, worked to get on the wrestling team, and put in time at the shop to learn more about mechanics in hopes of getting a good job someday—John had enjoyed watching it all. He couldn't be prouder.

He also could not tell Dean any of that. Talking about how good those few months had been would only make their next move harder. Best to sweep it all away, tuck it out of sight.

"We're only going back long enough to pack out the apartment. We'll need a few more things than we brought with us this time."

"We could stay, Dad. Sammy would really like it there. We could just tell people he's my half brother and we rescued him from your evil ex. They'd all buy it."

John snorted. "I'm sure they would, but we've got to move on. I don't know where that demon went off to, and if it's tracking us—well. We've got to do our best to lose him."

Dean looked up and around at the street outside the cell phone shop. "You think it's still out there?"

"I know it is. I caught it's scent this morning. I hasn't gone far."

Dean frowned. "What do they want with Sammy?"

"I don't know, and I don't want to find out. Our job is to keep Sam as far away from them as possible, stay sharp, and take as many of their kind down as we can." It wasn't the best strategy, but it was the only one John had at the moment.

Dean's shoulders straightened and he gave his father a proud nod. "Taking down monsters is what we do best."

"That it is." John gripped Dean's shoulder tight. "That it is."

 **Should Bobby tell John what he knows? Will Sam be content to stay with his family now? Will the demon be back?**

 **Please review!**


	13. Questions

**13: More Questions**

 _Six-oh-five-seven-seven-two-eight-three-six-_ Sam recited the new number over and over. He had three of them to memorize; one for Dad, one for Dean, and one for Bobby. They all carried phones in their pockets now. They had gotten them because of him, so that none of them would be lost or without help again. They had created a safety net that Sam was not likely to be able to escape again. If he even wanted to.

Sam looked out the window at the familiar sight of the Midwest landscape flicking by. Corn fields and farm houses whipped past as Dad guided the Impala down the highway. Some days, being on the road felt like a chapter from The Never-Ending Story. The road stretched into the distance with no end. This road led to the next road, all connected in an infinite web. Even if they drove their entire lives, the Winchesters would never travel all the roads. They would never be rid of all the monsters. The knowledge took some of the hope out of every victory. It was only temporary. It never truly changed anything.

But some days, life in the back seat felt like paradise. Some days, Dad would let them buy as much candy as they wanted. Some days, when everyone was in a good mood, they would play games and joke and the car felt like the best party in the world.

Some days, the Winchesters were happy here. Today was one of those days.

"Sour gummy worms?" Dean pulled a face even as he ripped the package open. "Come on, Sammy. Why do you want your candy to be sour? Candy should be sweet!"

"It's called contrasting flavors." Sam snatched a gummy worm and suck in the sour mess. He kept his gaze on his brother from the corner of his eye as he chewed, just to double check that this was really happening.

Dean was sitting in the back seat. Dean had moved up to the front seat as soon as the back became too cramped for his long legs, and hadn't returned. But today, he said that the front was still sticky because he had spilled his soda there yesterday. Dean moaned about his he'd nearly lost the seat of his jeans to the sticky mess as he clambered into the back.

Sam knew that Dean's seat choice had nothing to do with spilled soda. His brother had barely left him alone for five minutes since he got back. Sam could barely go to the bathroom without his Dean-sized shadow.

 _My brother is glad I'm back_. The thought loosened something in Sam's chest, something that had been in a tight knot ever since that last night n La Plata, Mo.

 _"Come on, Sammy! Dad's not that mad. He just needs you to trust him."_

 _Sam sat curled up in the bathtub as Dean's muffled voice wormed its way through the locked door. After a few more minutes of stubborn silence, Dean gave up and went away. Sam listened to make sure his brother didn't fall over before he made it to the bed; he knew that dislocated shoulder had to hurt. Dad didn't dish out the good painkillers very often._

 _The notepad that had started this hole mess sat in front of Sam. He had found the spell that the witch used on her victims. It was simple, really. It didn't call for any dark ingredients, just a specific herb that grew like a weed all up and down the road, a bit of hair, and a specific knot. Sam had traced the diagram, trying to figure out how to tie it all together. Not that he planned to use it. He was just curious._

 _It was why his dad didn't like him. Sam knew his dad loved him. Dad made sure that they always had food and a safe place to stay. Sometimes, he even made it home on a holiday. But Sam knew his dad didn't like him, not the way he liked Dean. For a little while, Sam had even tried to be more like Dean. He remembered telling his imaginary friend Sully how much he wanted to go out hunting with his family. How much he hated being left behind._

 _That had been the beginning of the trouble. Every hunt, it seemed like Sam managed to do something wrong. He didn't hear when Dad called. He froze and dropped his gun. He tripped at the wrong time and missed his shot. Today, he'd ignored an order and gotten Dean hurt._

 _So he had picked up a book to see if there was a better way to kill a witch. A way that would keep them all safer. All he'd gotten from his trouble was a lecture from his father and a betrayed look from his brother. Even when he tried to fix things, he couldn't do anything right._

 _The face of the dead woman swam in his vision. Even when they won and killed the 'bad guy', nothing felt right. Maybe the witch had really done her victims a favor. They got to forget all of the bad things they had done, all of the trouble they had had in their lives._

 _"Sam!" Dean's voice came through the bathroom door. "It's time for bed! You know Dad's gonna me mad if we don't have lights out by the time he gets back."_

 _"I gotta shower!" Sam hollered back. Dean moved away again, leaving Sam in peace for a few more minutes, but he was right. Dad would expect to see them in bed, lights out, when he got back. With a sigh, Sam moved to unlock the door._

 _The motel room was empty. Sam blinked in surprise. What? Where was Dean? His heart hammered in panic for a brief moment, then he saw that the handset to the cordless phone was missing. Sam went to the window and pulled back a corner of the curtain to see his brother standing outside on the sidewalk, phone cradled to his ear._

 _Who would Dean call?_

 _Sam pulled the window open a small crack, just wide enough to hear his brother's voice._

 _"Sometimes I don't know if I can handle it anymore." Dean's head was bowed, his eyes closed against the bitter taste of the words._

 _Sam frowned. Is Dean ok? Who was he even talking to?_

 _Dean paused, listening to the voice at the other end of the line, then shook his head. "No, Sonny, it's not like that. I don't want to leave. I mean—I can't. I have to take care of my little brother. My dad needs me."_

 _Sam's stomach turned into a knot._ Leave?

 _"I just need a break sometimes, you know? Dad's got so much for us to do, and Sammy doesn't make it any easier and—sometimes I wish I didn't have to worry about any of it. I get so tired of worrying. I feel like that's all I do sometimes."_

 _Dean listened for another moment. "Nah—I don't even know why I called. There isn't any point in talking about it." Clearly, the person on the other end of the line disagreed. "How I feel? I feel like there's a giant weight pressing down on my shoulders, and I've been under it all my life, but it just gets heavier. I used to know what to do for Sammy, you know? When he was a kid it was easy. Now everything is getting complicated. Dad's always mad, Sam's always unhappy, and I don't know what to do about it."_

 _The words filtered through the crack, sinking into Sam's ears, settling into the emotional mess that had been churning all night._ Dean thinks I'm dragging him down _._

 _Sam missed Dean's next words, and leaned closer to the window. "I'll be alright. We'll start school soon and Dad won't make us help out as often. Sam'll be busy and I'll get a chance to go out once in a while."_

 _Dean hated school, but he wanted school to start so he could get rid of Sam. After all, Sam was too old to be dragged out to Plucky Pennywhistle's anymore._

 _Dean was saying thanks now, and Sam knew the end of a conversation when he heard one. He scrambled to his bed and dived under the covers before Dean came back through the door._

 _"Sammy?" Dean called softly. Sam didn't answer, and Dean didn't call to him again._

 _Sam had gotten his brother hurt. Dean thought Sam was like a lead weight, dragging him down. Dad was always mad at him. They all wanted to hunt, and Sam knew that, more than anything, he didn't._

 _They would be happier if they could hunt alone, without having to drag Sam around with them. Maybe Sam would be happier if he didn't have to hunt anymore._

 _Sam traced the outline of the picture he had copied from his spell book. If he left, they wouldn't even miss him. He could make sure of that. Then, maybe they would all be happier._

It was still in his pocket, the paper with the notes Sam had used to cast the spell. It crinkled through the thin fabric, pricking his skin. A sharp reminder of how wrong he had been. At least for right now this moment, it was good to be home.

o0o

"That's totally wrong! It would never happen that way." Sam sat across the picnic table from his brother and glared as if Dean were the stupidest person on earth. It was something about being a younger sibling, Dean thought. They came pre-programmed with that look.

"Is it a tournament match with rules and all that, or is it a fight for your life?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Totally different fighting style. If you're in a tournament, you can't hit below the belt." For Winchesters, it never mattered because it was always a fight for your life.

"Fine, fight for your life."

"Chuck Norris would whup Bruce Lee in two minutes flat!" Dean slapped his hand on the picnic table to make his point.

Sam, predictably, rolled his eyes. "How do you figure? Bruce Lee has way more experience than Chuck Norris-"

"But Walker Texas Ranger always gets his man." Dean nodded, satisfied that he had made a un-arguable point.

"Well, why are they fighting anyway? Wouldn't they team up to beat the bad guys after they figure out they should be on the same side?"

Dean grinned. "I like how you think. There isn't a villian on the big screen those two couldn't take.

"What about T-1000? Can Bruce Lee and Chuck Norris take down a robot made of liquid metal that won't break no matter how hard they punch it?" Sam leaned in, daring Dean to challenge the point. Suddenly, his face went pale and his eyes went wide, fixed on something behind Dean's shoulder. Dean swung around, looking for the threat.

A woman with a bloody hole in her chest stood at the edge of the parking lot, starting at them with black eyes.

"Sammy?" Dean slowly rose to his feet and placed his hand on Sam's shoulder, pulling his brother close. "Is that-?"

"That's her, Dean. That's the witch. Only she's dead, I saw her die. You can see her chest-"

"Yeah, yeah I know." Dean's eyes measured the distance between the witch and the rest stop shelter, where Dad had gone to grab snacks and use the bathroom. She followed his gaze, then flashed him a wicked smile. He was too far away. If he made a run for it to get to Dad, the witch would beat him there.

Dean's hand went for the knife inside his jacket pocket. An unfamiliar, blocky lump was in the way. For half a second, Dean wondered what the heck it was. Then he remembered; his new cell phone. He had already set up the speed-dial feature. Dean pressed the button, calling Dad before the witch could take two steps.

"Dean?"

"Dad, she's here. That witch or demon or whatever it is, it's here and it's staring straight at us." Actually, all the woman did was stare. She didn't move or take a step toward them. Dean remained rooted in the spot; the minute he turned his back to run, she would be after them with super-human speed.

"Get Sam out of here," Dad ordered, the hung up.

The door to the rest area shelter banged open and Dad burst through, a crucifix in one hand and a bottle of Holy Water in the other. Dean pulled Sam's shoulder, turning him away from the fight. Sam didn't resist. Dean kept a tight grip of his brother, pulling Sam faster than he could run on his own, across the grassy picnic area to a stand of trees and a hidden ditch. They crouched in the mud below the trees, gasping for breath from the desperate sprint.

"Is Dad ok?" Sam lifted his head to try to see over the hill, but Dean put a hand out to make him stay down.

"Dad can take care of himself." Dean surveyed the landscape, looking for their best escape route. He still had a hand on Sam's arm, never loosening his grip.

He was not going to lose his brother again.

The phone in Dean's pocket let out a cheery ring, making Dean jump. "Dad?"

"Dean, it's gone. It ran away as soon as it saw me. You two can come back now." Dean let out a long breath of relief and finally released his hold on Sam. They trudged their way up the hill to where Dad waited for them at the picnic table. There was no trace of the witch. Dad gave them the all-clear and Dean led his brother back up the hill. Dad was waiting for them at the picnic table, face grim.

"Are you boys ok?" Dad's eyes swept them up and down, checking for injuries.

"My new shoes are all muddy." Sam looked mournfully down at the new sneakers they had bought for him before leaving Sioux Falls.

Dean snorted. "We're fine. Was it a demon?"

Dad nodded.

"Why was it here? I mean, what did it want?"

"Me." Sam said. "They want me."

"They should have figured out by now that they aren't going to get you and move on." Dean glared down at the parking lot, even though there was nothing left there to fight. They had gotten a hold of Same once; they weren't going to get him again.

"There's something wrong with me and the demons know it."

Dean turned sharply at this brother's words. Sam looked miserable, and he wasn't worried about his shoes anymore. "What are you talking about?"

"Sam, did the demon say something to you when you were at Bobby's?" Dad's eyes bored into Sam. Sam wilted, folding his shoulders up and tucking in his chin. "Sam, I cannot protect you if I do not know what is happening. What did the demon say?"

"He said I was special." Sam looked like he was talking to the picnic table, head bent. Dean stared, his insides turning cold. Why would a demon say something like that?

Dad leaned forward, eyes fixed on Sam. "Was it the witch or the demon? Which kidnapped you in La Plata?" Sam stared mutely at his hands. "Sam, we need to know. That thing will be back-"

"It wasn't the demon."

Dad scowled. That wasn't the answer he was looking for, but it was all he was going to get right now. "Alright, time to go." Dad nodded toward the car and led the way back toward the parking lot. The conversation was over.

 **Please review!**


	14. Toilet Paper and Holy Water

**13: Toilet Paper and Holy Water**

Sam stood in the center of the living room, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. This was an apartment. Not a motel room, not a pre-furnished space where they could camp out for a few weeks. This was an apartment where someone had bought furniture and decorated. Dad had even signed a lease; a lease that lasted a whole year. Sam saw it when Dad got it out; he was going to talk to the landlord about leaving early.

Leaving now. Dad wanted them be ready to move out on short notice. Normally, that wasn't a problem. Sam had never owned more things that he could fit into one large bag. But here—there was enough stuff here to fill the back of a truck.

Dean moved around the apartment, packing. His stuff was scattered all over the place. His cassette collection was sitting under the coffee table. His socks were scattered across the bedroom floor. There was even a special cup for his toothbrush in the bathroom. Dean, ever lazy about everything except hunting, barely bothered to unpack so that there would be less work when it came time to pack again. He never put anything out of arm's reach from his duffle bag.

Except here. Here, without Sam, Dean and Dad had moved in. It was obvious in the decorations on the walls, the choice of second-hand Looney Tunes glassware for the kitchen, and the photograph of Mom sitting out on the coffee table.

Sam had nothing to pack. He'd brought nothing with him from Missouri and had a new bag full of new clothes waiting for him in the car. So he had plenty of time to snoop around.

A calendar hung on the wall in the kitchen. Sam shuffled closer to read the notes scattered across the grid of dates. On Friday night there was a party, last week was parent-teacher conferences, and in two weeks there was a birthday party for someone named Steve.

There had never been a calendar in the Winchester home before. They had never stayed anywhere long enough to need one. Sam lifted the page. There was stuff listed for next month, too. He flipped the other way, back one month, then two. They were all full.

"How long have you been staying here?"

Dean froze as if startled. It only lasted half a second, but Sam saw.

Dean shrugged. "A little while." He had a garbage bag in hand and kept dropping things into it because there was too much to pack. Dean had more clothes in his closet than could fit in his duffle.

"What was Dad hunting here?" Sam asked.

There it was again, that slight pause before Dean answered, "Oh, we're between hunts right now."

"Ok, but before," Sam prompted. He fingered a business card that lay on Dad's dresser. It was for the mechanic shop down the block, and the logo matched the pair of coveralls in Dad's closet. Sam held up the business card to Dean.

"Yeah, Dad had to work a day job for a little while," Dean said, shrugging off the question in Sam's eyes.

"Dean, what's going on that you aren't telling me?"

Dean blinked, then turned back to sorting through his laundry. "Nothin', Sammy. What would be going on?"

"You weren't just staying here, Dean. You were living here. Dad went to a parent-teacher conference and got a job. You were going to try out for the wrestling team." Sam pointed to the date circled in red on the calendar.

"Nah, that was so I could avoid all the jocks that day, if it came to that," Dean said without missing a beat. "Look, we stayed here a little longer than usual is all."

"Why?" Sam pressed.

Dean shrugged. "Dad doesn't explain himself, Sammy. Maybe he wanted to work a day job for a little while to build up a cash reserve. Remember that FBI agent who nearly caught us last summer because of all those fake credit cards?"

Sam could hold his own against law enforcement just fine, but that didn't mean that he wanted to. "Yeah."

"So there you go. We needed to lay off the credit cards for a little while."

It sounded reasonable. I sounded logical. It could even be true. But something inside Sam's stomach squirmed uneasily.

o0o

The apartment felt like a foreign country, even though John had spent more time in this home than he had anywhere in the last decade. For a short time, this had been a place where he could forget about hunting, forget about the fear that had dogged him since they left Lawrence. All that was changed now that they had Sam with them. What had once felt like a safe space now could not be secure enough. John hadn't bothered to lock the windows, didn't even have a decent supply of salt in the cupboards.

He hadn't needed it, before.

Now, he needed every weapon he could get his hands on and more. A demon was after his son. The thing had followed them to the rest stop; it could follow them here. John dropped a fresh bag of salt and the cargo bag full of weapons onto the couch. They looked out of place in this apartment that had become their home.

It wasn't a home any longer. It would have to become a fortress just long enough to lay a trap for this demon, and then they would be gone. Back on the road, back to the hunt, back to the only job that had ever truly mattered; protecting his son.

John paused for a moment to watch Sam and Dean in the kitchen. Dean was busy cooking, navigating the space with practiced ease, while Sam chattered and generally got in the way. Somehow, between their banter and what looked like a soap-suds fight, they had managed to get the dirty dishes cleaned up and something resembling dinner ready.

It was a simple meal; pasta from a box, sauce from a jar, and salad that came out of a bag. It wasn't much, when it came to cooking, but it was more than they could do when living in motels where there were no pots, no pans, and no dishes to cook with. John had forgotten the difference, until this small weekend diversion. Yesterday, it felt like nothing had changed. Now, back at the apartment, eating a meal that took more than just a microwave to prepare, it came crashing back. Everything they had gained during these few short months. Everything they had enjoyed. Everything he and Dean had shared.

"Prego is better," Dean announced after sampling his pasta. He'd become something of a food critic now now that they didn't have to eat at whichever diner was closest to the highway. "I don't care what those commercials say."

"Why would you believe a commercial?" Sam asked, crinkling his nose. He was busy demolishing his salad. John didn't know where Sam had come by his love of vegetables, but he knew better than to discourage it.

"False advertising is a shameful thing, Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes, but also couldn't hide a small smile. John buried his in another mouthful of spaghetti. He had missed this. Even thought he hadn't known it, a part of him ached at how empty their home was without Sam. Now that he was back, things could go back to normal.

Back to the way they had been before, at any rate.

John waited until both boy's plates were empty before announcing, "Alright, boys. Clear the table. We've got work to do."

Dinner first. That was the rule. They ate first so that there would be no gunpowder or oil in the food, and more importantly, no crumbs in the guns. Dean nodded and began clearing dishes while Sam wiped down the table with a cloth. They both knew the drill. Within five minutes, the dishes were piled in the sink and the table was covered with the gun-cleaning kit and a pile of lore books.

Dean started in cleaning the guns without being told. Sam scrunched his nose in distaste as he reached for the oily rag. John settled an open book in front of Sam.

"Here. I want you to learn how to read this."

Sam's expression brightened immediately. He always had preferred books to guns. But then he frowned. "I can't read this. It's all-" He squinted at the old-fashioned print. "Is isn't even English."

"No, that's Latin." John smoothed out the page and ran his finger across the title of the passage. "This is an exorcism. It will banish a demon back to Hell. I want you to learn how to read it, and memorize it."

"Exorsiatmous—tea-" Sam stumbled to sound out the Latin words.

"Tay. That last bit is pronounced 'tay.'" John ran his finger under the line of print, reciting as Sam followed along, "Exorsciamoste espiritu santo-"

It was past time for this. John had given his sons the knowledge to fight any supernatural threat out there except one. He had put it off as long as possible for reasons—well, it was no use going into those. He hadn't wanted this, but he hadn't been given a choice.

It was time.

Dean was busy tracing the chalk lines for a devil's trap in front of the door and Sam was poking at the rosary and asking all sorts of questions about how it turned water holy when the sound of a car door outside caused them all to pause. A sharp knock at the door followed.

Dean jumped to his feet and peered through the spy-hole. He gestured to John to put away his gun with a shake of his head, and swung the door open with a friendly grin.

"Danny!"

John didn't recognize the name, but he knew he had seen the teenager before. Dean had collected a small group of them, or else they had collected Dean.

""Dean! Hey, man, are you ok? You weren't at school today. Branden heard Ms. Baxter complaining to the principal and they even considered sending someone by the house to check on you guys. But then Joe said your car's been gone all weekend."

"We went on a trip and stayed longer than we thought."

Danny tilted his head, trying to see past Dean's shoulder, his eyes landing on the devil's trap on the floor. "You know Halloween was last month, right?"

"Yeah, but it's Sammy's favorite holiday and he missed it, so we're celebrating again."

"Sammy?" Danny raised one eyebrow in a question.  
"Yeah, my kid brother."

"Dude, you don't have a brother."

"Sure I do! That's where we were this weekend, Dad and I rescued him from his mother. She's a real-"

"Hey!" Sam glared at his brother.

"Well, she is Sam. Don't worry, we'll have you deprogrammed soon."

Danny stared at Sam for a moment, then shook his head and turned his attention back to Dean. "So, you're not sick and nothing terrible happened?"

"I'm fine. Might not be in school tomorrow, though. We'll see how it goes." Dean gave Danny a friendly slap on the shoulder that also served to nudge the other boy out the door. Danny took the hint and left, and Dean locked the door behind him.

He looked over at John with a frown. "Dad, are you sure this is a good idea?"

John had considered trying to lure the demon out to an abandoned building in the country, but he wasn't sure it would take the bait. If they left home, the whole thing would be too obvious. No, it had to be here.

"I'm sure no one else will come by, Dean. It's getting too late." All of the nice, normal families that populated this town would stay in after dark. It was a school night. There shouldn't be any danger of anyone getting caught in the crossfire.

"Yeah. Dad, do you think we'll be going to school tomorrow?"

 _Will I have a chance to say good-bye to my friends?_  
 _I'm sorry, son_. "No. We'll stop and get your transcripts in the morning. Finish that devil's trap."

"Yes, sir."

o0o

Dean lay awake in his bed, listening. He kept his breathing even and steady, pretending to sleep in case anyone—any _thing_ —was watching. To an outsider, it should have looked like Dad went off to hunt, leaving Sam in Dean's care as usual. The boys had gone through their evening routine, donned their pajamas and turned the lights out, but neither was asleep.

Dean could hear Sam muttering Latin under his breath from his sleeping bag beside Dean's bed. Dean ran his finger along the cold edge of his shotgun, loaded with iron rounds and tucked under the blankets with him.

He'd been careful when he slipped it under the covers so that no one spying from the outside could see the weapon. After all, if the demon thought they were ready and waiting, it wouldn't take the bait.

 _Whoosh_!

Dean cracked one eye open and frowned. The noise that rattled through the window was not the one that he had expected. He picked up his shotgun on reflex, but paused. The hair on the back of his neck didn't prickle and his heart rate refused to rise. He'd been waiting for the sound of movement outside all night, but now the moment had come, Dean didn't feel threatened at all.

The muffled rustle came again, and something white flew past the window.

Dean's eyes narrowed. He definitely recognized that sound. Dean set the shotgun back down and kicked his feet over the edge of the bed.

Sam tossed off his sleeping bag. "Is it happening?" He looked around for signs of the demon and reached for the exorcism that Dad had left behind for them.

Dean shook his head and pressed his finger to his lips as he moved toward the door.

From outside came the distinct sound of a giggle. Sam blinked and pressed his nose to the window. "Dean—is that—I think your friend is TP-ing our house."

"Yep." Dean moved as quietly as possible across the living room, not turning on any lights. Lights would give the enemy fair warning, and they would scatter before Dean could exact his revenge.

"Doesn't sound like he's a very good friend." Sam trailed after Dean, matching Dean's quiet tone.

"He's a great friend!" Dean flipped the deadbolt slowly and checked the spy-hole to make sure all was clear. It would take too long to explain to Sammy the TP-war that had escalated around town over the past month. It had gotten so bad that toilet paper was now considered a controlled substance, right next to the alcohol and cigarettes.

That hadn't stopped the fun. Last weekend, Dad purchased the supplies for Dean and then handed over the keys so the guys could hit a house on the other side of town.

Last weekend may as well have been an alternate timeline. Last week, there wouldn't have been any danger for a group of teens slinging toilet paper into trees. Tonight, there was something else out there, too. Dean needed away to get his friends out of here, fast.

"He's going to leave a mess on our lawn," Sam complained. "And then you'll insist on getting his house before we leave town, and Dad'll get grumpy and-"

"Nah, I hit his house already." He should have remembered that, should have expected this when Danny dropped by. It had been a friendly warning, Dean realized. Only he'd been too busy prepping for the hunt to notice.

Sam dropped his forehead into his palm and rolled his eyes. Dean gestured for Sam to be silent again, slipped into his boots, and then out the front door. Dad was supposed to be staked out somewhere close. Why he hadn't stopped the TP party before it started, Dean didn't know. Maybe he hadn't spotted them in time. Maybe, he had spotted something else. Either way, it was Dean's job to clear the area.

The garden hose was by the corner of the building. Thankfully, their apartment was on the first floor. It was a short dash to the spigot. Dean cranked the handle then grabbed the nozzle. He plunged toward the crowd of shadowy figures dancing around the shrubbery with a wild yell, spraying wildly in all directions. Sam took the cue and flipped on the outdoor light.

"Gahhh!" Danny let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a scream. "Dude! It's cold outside!"

"Dude, my house!" Dean yelled back. "My Dad's gonna make me clean that crap up!" Dean didn't let up with the spray from the hose, driving Danny and his two friends back toward their car.

"Dean!"

The sound of fear in his little brother's voice made Dean spin instantly. A fourth figure stood in the middle of the yard, the dried blood in the middle of her chest now a black blotch.

 _Demon_.

It didn't flinch when Dean directed the cold spray from the hose at its face. Its eyes were fixed on Sam, who stood frozen on the front step.

"Sammy, run!" Dean dropped the hose and sprinted for the house. He shoved his little brother through the door, scattering the salt line as they went. Sam staggered, tripping on the rug, and crashed to the floor, bringing Dean down with him. Dean rolled to avoid landing on his brother. He flipped onto his back just in time to see the demon step across the threshold and place both feet on the rug that covered the devil's trap.

"Gotcha." Dean smirked as the demon tried to step forward and smashed into an invisible wall. Sam scrambled to the corner and snatched up a bucket of holy water, holding it ready just in case. The demon thrashed and shrieked.

"Dean!" Danny came to the doorway, staring at the demon's back. His eyes were wide, confused. Had he seen the bloody bullet hold in her front? "You ok? What's going on?"

"Isn't it past your bedtime?" Dad came up behind Danny, shotgun slung casually across one shoulder. "I don't need to talk to your parents about that mess in my yard, do I?"

Danny's eyes flicked uncertainly to the demon-possessed woman, then back to Dad, and he shook his head. "No sir, Mr. Winchester. Sir."

"Good. Now get on home." John nodded toward the car waiting on the curb, and Danny vanished.

 _Nope, I am definitely not going back to school here_. Still, Dean wondered what stories they would tell around the lunch table tomorrow.

Dad lowered the shotgun into a more threatening position and fixed his attention on the demon, a familiar glint in his eye. "Well, well. Thought you'd pay my boys a visit? I think it's time you and I had a little talk."

 **I have a friend who grew up in a small town where there was nothing to do. So toilet-papering other people's homes became the activity of choice for the high-schoolers. It got so bad that they truly had to be over 18 in order to purchase toilet paper inside city limits.**

 **Sam is beginning to figure out what things were like when he was gone. John's about to get some face-time with a demon. Dean's trying to pretend he won't miss his friends.**

 **How will it end? Just a couple more chapters to go!**

 **Please review!**


	15. Secret's Out

**14: Secret's Out**

The old shed was musty and smelled of decaying vegetation and mold. One light flickered overhead, casting shadows in all directions. It was a fitting place to bring a vile, evil thing. Far away from the small apartment where he had once made a home. Far away from the questioning eyes of neighbors, and his sons.

Out here, there could be no casualties, no collateral damage. Out here, no innocent ears would hear the screams. Out here, John could hide from his sons. They had seen his anger, they had seen his obsession, they had even seen his hate. But he had been careful never to show them the worst of what he had become; the feral pleasure that came with torturing a demon.

Tonight, John needed answers. And tonight, John could do his worst. The host was dead; there was a bullet hole in her heart. There was no innocent victim lurking behind the demon's black eyes, and therefore no reason to hold back.

"Ahhhh!" The piercing wail echoed against the tin room. John pressed the iron brand deeper into the demons skin.

"What do you want with my son?" John held the pressure a moment longer, then pulled back. The demon slumped in its seat, taking short, shallow breaths.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" The voice was taunting, the spirit inside not yet broken.

"You drove him away from the home in Missouri, then tracked him here. You had an opportunity to kidnap him, but you didn't. Why?"

The demon snorted. "Maybe we were scared his daddy would hunt us down?"

If only. The demons had no fear of him, John knew that all too well. Even this one, stuck in a trap and vibrating with pain, looked at him with a scornful sneer.

"Why did you tell Sam he was special?"

"John, you don't think your son is special?" The demon shook its head in mock disappointment.

"No." John had kept a close eye on his youngest son over the years, watching for signs of anything abnormal. There had been none. "My son is an ordinary boy. There is no reason for you to be interested in him."

The demon shrugged. "Maybe there is, maybe there isn't. Who can say?"

John growled in frustration. This. This was why he was no closer to finding answers today than he had been a decade ago. Demons had a way of twisting words, of turning phrases sideways so that you no longer knew what they meant. Was this all just a ploy, a way to taunt John and torment his family? Or was there a deeper plan?

Was there really something special about Sam?

 _I should have known better_. John had had this conversation before, and it always ended the same way. He never got a straight answer, and walked away with more questions than he had started with.

Someday, that would change.

"Boy's gotta be special to cast a spell like that on the first try, though." The demon grinned.

John's ears pricked. "What?"

The demon looked up and around as if confused. "What? Did you hear something? I didn't say nuthin'."

It was bait. The demon may as well have said, "I'm going to tell you something that you won't like and won't know if you can believe. Come on, just ask me!"

A smart hunter knew how to bait a trap, and ought to know not to walk into one.

Of course, sometimes springing the trap was the only way to approach the enemy.

"What do you mean? Who cast a spell?"

"Oh, Sammy, such talent! I was rooting for the witch, you know." The demon looked down at the body it was wearing. "After she figured out what he did, she wanted to take him home and train him up. I thought she had a good chance, too. After all, little Sammy was soooo miserable with you."

"Train him up?"

"He said 'no' awful quick," the demon continued. "You'd be real proud."

John tried to assemble this information in away that made sense. "That's why the witch wiped my memory? To take my son and train him as her apprentice?"

"You think the witch cast that spell?" The demon cackled. "Oh, Johnny boy, is that what you think happened? You think someone kidnapped Sam? Oh, no, no, no. It's much better than that." The demons eyes glinted with pure glee as it drove the knife home and twisted. "Sammy was so miserable with you, he up and left. Left and made sure you would never even think to look for him. Now that's what I call running away from home."

John's eyes narrowed, filtering through the laughter to the important information. "You're saying Sam cast that spell?"

"Who else?" The demon smiled wide, showing all its teeth. "Why do you think he waited so long to ask for help?"

Bobby Singer had asked the exact same question. It was the only reason John didn't dismiss the demon's words as meaningless banter. But that was a problem to resolve later. John leaned closer, iron brand hovering over the demon's mouth.

"This isn't about what Sam did. This is about what you did. You stay away from my boy."

"I saved your kid's life, John. You should be thanking me." It paused, eyes dancing. "A life for a life, isn't that how you honorable types work? You owe me. Sam owes me."

"No one asked for your help." Not that it mattered. John had left his honor behind in the ashes in Lawrence. "No one owes you."

"Keep telling yourself that, but rules are rules. Little Sammy is ours, and one of the days the boss will come to collect."

"Why?"

"Above my pay grade." The demon wriggled against the ropes tied around its wrists. "Now, are you gonna keep playing 'poke the demon' or are you gonna exorcise me already? The boss is waiting for his report, and he hates it when I run late."

"Maybe I won't send you back." John stepped away and set the brand aside. "Maybe, I'll stick you someplace no one can find you."

The demon's smug grin faded slightly. "What? This trap won't hold long, John. Paint fades, salt washes away. The only way to get rid of me is to send me back to the boss. You know that."

"I don't know any such thing." John went to his bag and pulled out his journal, the one where he chronicled his most important data about the supernatural. "In fact, I've got a few ideas I've been meaning to try." Burying the thing in a block of concreted with a devil's trap carved into the side ought to hold it for a long while. John smiled, and the demon finally looked scared.

Good.

o0o

"Why didn't Dad take us with him?" Sam sat on the couch, folding the piece of paper with his Latin exorcism written on on it into a pocket-sized bundle.

"I don't know, Sammy." Dean was busy cleaning the refrigerator. If they left the apartment spotless, then Dad could get his security deposit back. That would be a nice bit of cash to have on hand until the new credit cards came in. Besides, it was better to be busy. It he wasn't busy, he would have to think, and Dean didn't want to think about what he was leaving behind.

Bits of toilet paper floated from the branches outside the window, a friendly jibe that Dean would not be able to return. The days of weekend parties and late-night fun were over.

"I mean, he taught us how to deal with the demon. We helped trap it." Sam shoved the exorcism into his pocket, next to another bit of paper. Sam was always collecting bits of information like that. "Why didn't he want us to help get rid of it?"

"I thought you didn't like hunting," Dean grumbled.

"I like things to make sense." Sam slumped in his seat, frowning.

The rumble of the school bus down the road caught Dean's ear. He glanced out the window, but the bus didn't stop or even slow down. Dad had called the school office already to let them know Dean would no longer be attending. A few kids had their faces pressed to the windows. Whether they looked concerned or just curious, Dean couldn't tell.

Dean looked away and found Sam staring at him. He shoved the fridge door shut and tossed Sam a broom. "A little help here?"

Sam picked up the broom, but his brows had creased into a frown. He hadn't missed Dean's glance out the window. "Do you _want_ to go to school?"

"What? Me?"

"Yeah. You."

"Nah, just checking to see if Haley Thomas was there. You know, if Dad takes much longer and she wants to play hookey-" Dean waggled his eyebrows meaningfully, even though there was no way he would leave Sam on his own. Not when a demon had walked through their door less than ten hours before.

"But you did your homework." Sam used the broom to hook a book from the coffee table and held it up in front of Dean's nose. The science worksheet stuck out of the book, every answer carefully penciled in. "You never do your homework. You hate school." Sam set the book aside and fixed his brother with a withering look, one that said his bullshit-radar was on high alert and he'd better get a straight answer this time. "What happened here, Dean?"

Dean shrugged. "I dunno, maybe the spell messed with our heads."

Sam's forehead creased. "No! It wouldn't do that—I-it-it was only supposed to make you forget me."

"Yeah? How do you know?"

Sam's mouth snapped shut, and suddenly all of Dean's attention was focused on his little brother.

"Sammy? Come on, what happened? Whatever it is—why do you think you can't tell me?" That was the worst part of all of this. Normally, when something happened to Sam, the kid wouldn't shut up about it.

"Why didn't Dad take us to fight the demon?"

Dean grimaced. Leave it to his little brother to change the subject. "Sam-"

"Do you want to stay?" The question was sharp, cutting over Dean's response. Dean froze, the words stuck in his throat. He was a good liar, the best. He could fool anyone he choose, including his little brother. The words would come easy. But this was one lie that Dean knew he could not keep off his face.

"Sammy, it doesn't matter what I want-"

"Why not? Because it only matters what Dad wants?"

"No! Because we have a job and people to save. If we don't do the job, Sam, someone dies." Dean snatched the broom away from his brother. "Dad'll be back anytime now. Get ready to go."

"No."

Dean stared. "What?"

"No." Sam planted his feet and crossed his arms. "This is a good place. You like this place and I think I would like it too."

A series of three sharp raps rattled the door. That was Dad's signal, to let them know it was him and they didn't need to shoot. John Winchester stepped into the room, a thundercloud in his expression. He stopped on the front mat when he saw the standoff in the kitchen.

"Boys, what's going on? You should be ready to go."

"No," Sam repeated, shifting his glare to his father.

"No?" Dad's tone was dangerous.

Dean gripped the broom handle tight. There was not stopping this now. He didn't know what to expect, but he knew it wasn't going to be good.

o0o

"No." Sam felt the word grow firmer every time he repeated it. Saying it to Dean had been one thing, but saying it to his father made his knees rattle. Still he stood his ground, looking up at Dad with his most defiant expression. "I don't want to go. I think we should stay here."

Dad slowly shut the door behind him, and the sound of the latch echoed across the sudden silence. Dad was looking at him with an expression Sam had never seen before.

"Where is it, Sam?"

Sam frowned. "Where is what?"

"The spell that you used to make us forget about you, so that you could run away. Where is it?"

Sam felt his hand move before he could stop it, automatically going to hover over the space where the little piece paper sat. "I don't know what-"

"Give it to me."

Dad took a step forward. Sam took a step back, and ran straight into Dean. His big brother's arms grasped his shoulders, holding him in place. "Sammy? What's Dad talking about?"

The crack in Dean's voice felt as sharp as any knife wound. Sam looked away, but there was Dad. He had no place to go, pinned between the two people he loved the most. The two people he had betrayed.

Sam reached into his pocket and pulled out the small square of folded paper. He should have burned it the night he cast that spell. He should have flushed it down the toilet at Bobby's. Why had he hung onto it?

Just in case he needed it again.

Dean took the paper from Sam's hand and flattened it. He squinted at the page, lips moving as he read over the directions for the spell. Face grim, he passed the paper to Dad.

"How did you know?" Sam asked.

"The demon told me."

"I thought you said demons lie," Dean said.

"Not if they know the truth will be worse." Dad stared at the paper, the expression on his face hardening. He hadn't been sure, when he walked in that door. Now, he had decided. What he had decided, Sam didn't know. He didn't think he wanted to find out.

In one quick motion, Sam slipped out of Dean's hold, ducked around Dad, and darted for the door.

He didn't make it two steps. Dad's strong arms wrapped around him, catching Sam in a bear-hug that he could not escape.

Sam kicked and squirmed. "Let me go!"

"Where are you going, Sam? I'm not letting you run away again."

"Why not? You don't want me!" Sam kicked, but John knew how to keep his shins out of range of Sam's heels.

Dean was staring at him now. Sam could see his brother's face twisted in confusion and pain. "You ran away, Sammy? You wanted me to forget about you?"

"You said you didn't want me." Sam could feel the tears burning hot down his cheeks. "You said you were tired of dealing with me, that I make everything worse."

"Dean?" Dad's tone was sharp.

Dean shook his head. "I never-"

"You did! And it was true! You and Dad were happier without me."

"Sam, stop this!" Dad used that firm tone that meant he expected to be obeyed. It had worked when Sam was eight. It didn't work anymore.

"It's true!" Sam spun around in his father's grip and shoved him hard. Dad stepped back, releasing Sam. It didn't matter anyway because Dean had moved to block Sam's way to the door. He was trapped, the secret was out, and Sam had nothing left to loose. He glared at his father. "You were happier without me."

"Things were different, Sam. That's all."

"Different?"

"Different. We didn't know what we were missing, but we knew we were missing something."

"So you went out partying with friends?" Sam pulled something else out of his pocket; the Polaroid he had found on Dad's dresser with a photograph of Dad toasting beers with a group of friends. They all had smiles on their faces. Sam had never seen his father smile like that outside of photographs from when Mom was live. But this photo was new, it had a date stamped in the bottom corner.

Dad barely glanced at the photo. "That doesn't mean anything, Sam."

Sam threw the photo as hard as he could. It was too light to fly far and fluttered to the ground in a twisty spiral. "Stop lying to me."

"Sam, you are the one who used black magic on your own family."

A lump of fear rose in Sam's throat, but he pushed it back with a defiant glare. "I had to do it! You never listen to me! I hate traveling and I hate going to a new school every month and I hate hunting!"

"Sam, we have to-"

"No we don't! You've been living here for two months! You don't have to find another hunt." Sam took a small, hopeful step toward his father. "We could stay! You and Dean like it here, don't tell me you don't!"

Dad shook his head. "Sam, we can't stay. Danny has told the story all around town by now of the woman we trapped last night."

"He didn't see anything! Dean will just tell everyone it was his evil step-mom trying to get me back! They'll believe him." Everyone always believed Dean, no matter how outrageous his story.

"It's not that simple, Sam."

"Why not? We could stay, Dad. Please." Now Sam had started talking, he couldn't stop. He wouldn't stop until he got the answer he wanted. The answer he needed. "We could stay and I won't make any trouble. I can sleep on the couch, or another bed will fit in Dean's room. We could all be happy here."

"Sam." Dad reached out a put a hand Sam's shoulder. The anger had slowly rolled out of his expression, and now he just looked deflated. Defeated. "Sam, we can't stay because it's not safe. That demon followed us here-"

"We took care of it! You exorcised it! It's gone!"

"There will just be another one." Dad's grip on his shoulder tightened. "It might take a few months for them to catch on, but there will be another one sooner or later. There's always another demon, Sam."

"What do you mean? Demons are really rare. I've never seen one before."

"Demons are everywhere, Sam, they just know how to hide." Dad's frown deepened. "They've been following us ever since they left Lawrence. It took me a while to figure it out, but there's no mistake. The demon said you're special, Sam."

The word send a shiver down Sam's spine. Dad continued, "I don't know why, but they think it's true."

"What?"

"That's why we have to hunt, son. That's why we have to live on the move. We have to stay one step ahead of them."

Sam shook his head. "Dad, you're not making any sense. There's never been a demon before."

"They hide, Sam. They hide inside your teachers and inside your friends. I've caught three, Jim caught two. Bobby even caught one once when you were staying with him."

The room spun as the word as Sam knew it re-arranged itself. Demons? In his friends? "What do they want?"

"I don't know and it doesn't matter because you won't give it to them. We are going to stay one step ahead of them. That's why I'm teaching you to fight. That's why I'm learning everything I can about them. I think there may even be a way to kill them. I will keep you safe, Sam. But we can't stay put, we have to stay ahead of them."

Sam felt the walls of the room closing in. He was too hot, and too cold, and Dad's words made his head spin. "No! You said we hunt because your trying to find the thing that killed Mom."

"I do. I am. It's all connected, Sam."

"How is it connected?"

"The thing that killed your mother was in your nursery, Sam. It's part of this, it's working with the demons somehow."

"Sammy?" Dean's hand was on Sam's shoulder now, his tone concerned. "Sammy, it's gonna be ok. Dad knows what he's doing. We'll learn how to fight demons, we just have to keep on the move. That's all."

Dad was moving around the room, picking up is packed bags. "It's time to go."

Sam was numb. He barely felt Dean's hand on his shoulder as his brother guided him toward the Impala. He didn't hear the car door slam shut. He barely noticed the streets flicking past as they drove out of town. Away from the one place where Dad had allowed them to have a normal life. Where Dean had been happy, where Dad had stopped hunting. Now, all of that was gone because of him.

Sam closed his eyes, letting the road and the rumble of the engine fade away. Now he knew for sure: everything that went wrong in the Winchester family was all his fault.

 **Two chapters left! What will Sam do next?**


	16. Desperate Measures

**15: Desperate Measures**

 _I'm too old for this_. A familiar ache lodged in the side of John's neck. He slowly tilted his head, and the pain sharpened, radiating down his arm. He'd slept sitting upright in the front seat of the Impala, head resting against the window. There had been a time when he could lay out in the front seat, back when both boys fit in the back with space to spare. These days, the boys were far too old to share the bench seat, and wouldn't fit besides.

So somehow, John and Dean hand ended up sleeping upright in the front while Sam stretched out in the back all by himself. The boy had spent the drive in silence, staring out the window and refusing to be cheered up. Eventually, Dean had stopped trying to crack jokes and moved to the front seat, lost in worries of his own.

John wanted to take them both home. He wanted a building with four walls and a roof that felt safe and where no intruder could harm them. He wanted to tuck is son in at night and sleep in a warm bed knowing that they would all be safe.

But that was not an option. Even with the demon gone, John still didn't feel safe in a motel room. There was something about the Impala, with her solid steel frame and grumbling engine, that made him feel like he was driving a tank. The car didn't have a gun turret or armor, but she felt safe. This was the space where John had spent the most time with his boys. This was the one constant that had remained in their lives since the time before the fire.

So instead of finding a motel, John had pulled over and parked in the lot of an abandoned drive-in movie theater. He laid out a protective sigil using both salt and chalk, circling the car and his small family.

Now, morning streaked the horizon a pale red. Time to get on the move again. Beside John, Dean stirred. He yawned, stretched, and frowned.

"Something wrong, son?"

"I dunno. I feel like something's missing." Dean turned to the back seat. "Where's Sam?"

John felt his stomach sour as he turned to look at the empty back seat. He jumped out of the car to inspect the sigil that protected the vehicle. Not a single line was broken. Nothing had disturbed them overnight. Nothing had taken Sam.

John Winchester's son had run away from home.

Again.

o0o

Less than 48 hours. That's how long it had taken John Winchester to chase Sam away a second time.

 _Balls_!

Something was going to have to be done. Bobby didn't know what, but something had to change. Otherwise, he would spend the better part of the next decade trying to track down that teenager.

A teenager who had more than proven he knew how to disappear when he wanted to. At least this time they knew he was missing.

That didn't help much when the kid had at least a five-hour head start. The floor rattled as Bobby stomped through the house, packing as fast as he knew how. Although, once he hit the road, he didn't know where to being. Where would Sam choose to hide?

There was a knock at the door. Bobby grimaced, zipped his bag, and slung it over his shoulder. "We're closed-" Bobby yanked the door open and stopped short.

"Sam?"

Sam's shoulders were hunched, his expression hesitant. "Hey, Bobby. Did you mean it when you said that I could stay here if I needed to? If things didn't go well with Dad?"

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack? You have my number!" Bobby waggled his cell phone under Sam's nose. "Call first!" Bobby held the door open wide and gestured Sam inside with a tilt of his head. He set his travel bag aside and looked the wayward teen up and down.

"Sorry, Bobby. I thought-"

"No, you didn't think. You had a fight with your Dad and you let your feet do the thinking. You had breakfast?"

Sam shook his head, and Bobby moved to the kitchen and started beating up a bowl of eggs to scramble.

"You gonna tell me what happened?"

Sam shrugged, picking at his sleeve. "We had a fight."

"Yeah, I figured. How bad?"

"Bad."

 _Bad_? It must have been, to reduce Sam to one-word answers. Bobby sighed and tossed the beaten eggs into the skillet. "Well, you're welcome to stay as long as you like."

o0o

Sam's heard warmed at the words. "Really, Bobby?"

"I will never kick you out, Sam. But I have to tell your father you're here."

Sam's hopes crashed. "Why?"

"Because he deserves to know that you're not dead or kidnapped, that's why."

Disappointment faded under the sharp pang of guilt. "Oh."

Bobby served up the eggs, but they tasted ashy in his mouth. Bobby didn't even stop to eat before picking up the phone to call Dad.

While Bobby was busy on the phone, Sam moved into the library, eyes roving over the books there. Half the titles weren't in English, but it didn't take much to figure out what they were all about.

Demons. Bobby was an expert on demons. So was Pastor Jim. The only two hunters that Dad would let them stay with were demon experts. Sam had never really thought about it before, but now—now all of the pieces were starting to fall into place.

It would be easy to say that the demon had lied, but Sam couldn't believe that. Dad had been too scared. Fear did not visit John Winchester often, and when it did, Sam paid attention. What Dad had said about the demons following them—Dad believe it. Believed, and was terrified.

Bobby's voice filtered through from the other room.

"Yes, John. I'm telling you he's here and he's fine. Not too interested in talking to you, though. You could give it a few days-" Bobby paused. "Right. Well, we'll be here." He hung up the phone and turned to Sam. "Your dad is on his way."

Sam nodded.

"I'll stick up for you, if you want to stay here for a little while-"

 _Ring! Ring_! Bobby scowled and went to answer the phone.

Sam smiled. Right on time. He'd had to pick a few pockets to scrape up enough cash for the bribe, but it hadn't been hard to find someone willing to make a fake call in exchange for fifty bucks.

"Look, I'm busy now. Why don't you call—oh you did?" Bobby paused, listening. "Under the bridge? With your kid? Yeah, I know it's cold out-Alright, I'll be there as soon as I can." He hung up the phone with a frown. "Looks like I've got work to do."

"Oh. Ok."

Bobby considered Sam with narrowed eyes. Sam's heart hammered. Could Bobby see through the lie?

"If I leave, will you be here when I get back?"

Sam bit his lip, but nodded. "Yeah. I'll be here."

"You could come along," Bobby offered.

Sam just raised his eyebrows. Everyone knew he was useless when it came to car repair.

"Right. Well, this won't take long. I will be back long before your dad gets here."

"I'm not going anywhere, Bobby. I promise."

Bobby frowned. "I don't have to go-"

"It's ok. I'm safe. The demon is gone. There's nothing to worry about."

"Alright." Bobby picked up the keys to the tow truck and left Sam alone.

Alone with a stack of books on demon lore and a house full of the rare spell ingredients. Sam grabbed the book he had come for, flipped to the page he needed, and rolled up his sleeves.

Time to get to work.

o0o

It didn't take long to figure out that the call for the tow was fake. When Bobby arrived at the spot where the poor, frightened soul had told him her car broke down and landed in the ditch, there wasn't even so much as a bent blade of grass. No tire tracks, no broken glass. Nothing.

By the time Bobby pulled back into the salvage yard, he'd replayed the conversation with Sam in his head at least a dozen times. He should have asked more questions, but he hadn't wanted to push too hard, just in the case the kid decided to bolt again.

Why would Sam come to see him, only to send Bobby away?

"Sam!" Bobby's yell was met by silence. The house was empty.

Bobby wasn't sure which to be more worried about; what Sam was up to, or what John Winchester would do when he arrived to find his son missing again.

An empty space on the mantle over the fireplace caught Bobby's eye. His large mixing bowl, the one he used for mixing ritual ingredients, was gone. Bobby pulled open the desk where he kept his spell ingredients. To the casual eye, it would look like a witch's supply store, but a hunter would recognize that the only things here were a small arsenal of herbs that could be used against monsters. Hiding scent for a vampire. A scrying stone. Binding the dead.

Bobby's eyes narrowed. There were three empty spaces, three herbs gone.

Three herbs that told Bobby exactly what Sam was up to.

 _Balls_!

o0o

Dean's chest ached. It felt like something had reached inside and scooped everything out, leaving him hollow except for the ache that refused to leave. The ache that was the same size and shape as his little brother.

How did he not notice before? All those months, the ache had been there, but Dean hadn't understood it?

How did he miss the signs? Sam had been moody yesterday, but Dean had never suspected he would run away again.

How did he not hear? Sam should not have been able to sneak out of the Impala without waking his big brother.

But he had, and here they were. Dean, gripping his seatbelt tight as Dad drove faster than Winchester had ever driven before. Under different circumstances, Dean would have been worried about damage to the engine.

But there was only one thought in his head.

 _Sam left_.

Sam left because he thought Dean didn't want him. He had said as much back at the apartment. Dean wracked his mind, replaying everything that had happened that night in Missouri when this entire mess started. This was all his fault, somehow. Dean knew that much. He just didn't know how to fix it.

A shrill ringtone interrupted Dean's thoughts. He turned his head to Dad, but Dad pulled out his phone and shook his head. Dean frowned and looked down at his own pocket. His cell phone was lighting up, and Bobby's name marched across the screen.

"Bobby?"

"Dean! I need your help."

"Is Sam ok?"

"He ran off on me, but I don't think he went far. You boys have played hide and seek around my property so much, you know the place better than me. Where would Sam go if he didn't want me to find him?"

 _Not good_. Dean closed his eyes. Where did Sam like to hide?

"The old shed. Not the one you use to work on cars, the older one beyond the gravel that looks like it's falling down. There's a ditch way at the edge of the back lot, where you keep the really old cars that you don't even use for parts anymore. Or the basement." Dean had once spent an entire afternoon searching for Sam out in the yard, when his little brother had crawled into a closet in the basement with a flashlight and a book.

"Right. Put your father on the line."

Dean made no argument. Dad was already giving him a _look_ , as if about to order Dean to hand over the phone himself. But Dad was going too fast to navigate the road with only one hand on the wheel, so Dean put the phone on speaker.

"Bobby, what happened?" There was danger in John Winchester's tone, but Bobby didn't seem to care.

"What happened between you and Sam? He said you had a fight."

"I did what you suggested, Bobby. I told him about the demons."

There was a pause, but Dean could hear the muffled sound of Bobby cursing. "How much did you tell him."

"Everything."

"Everything?" Bobby's tone was no pleased.

"Everything. Still think it was a good idea?"

"I told you to explain things, not scare him half to death." There was a rising hint of panic in Bobby's voice.

Dean leaned closer to the phone and asked, "Bobby? What did Sam do?"

"I think he's trying to summon demon."

o0o

The old shed was on the verge of collapse, rotting away from the inside out. The walls leaned sideways, the boards were rotted, and the roof was cracked and sagging. But the floor was concrete, and Sam was able to find a space smooth enough to hold a devil's trap without any breaks in the lines.

The smell of burning herbs was sharp and bitter. The Latin words were clumsy on his tongue. His heart hammered in his chest as he fumbled his way through the summoning ritual. _This is a bad idea_. Somewhere, something inside him begged to turn back. Sam smothered the thought, focusing only on the task at hand. _This is the only way_. When the smoke cleared, a familiar figure stood in front of him, caught within the chalky lines of the devil's trap.

Sam squared his shoulders, steeling himself for the confrontation. He was flanked by a bag of salt and a bucket of holy water. He might have preferred to have his big brother at his back, but he knew Dean would never understand. No one did. Sam had to do this alone.

"Hey, kid!" The pale, dead face that broke into a smile at the sight of Sam. The demon's skin was covered in a thing layer of dried concrete that flaked off like a second skin as it moved. "Boy, am I glad to see you! I'm gonna flay your dad alive, eat his flesh and grind his bones, but you've got my vote, kid! Now, be a good boy and break the line so I can be on my way, hm?" The demon tapped the edge of the devils' trap with its toe.

Sam stared. This was no what he had expected. "Why is there cement on your face?"

"Your dad dropped me in a deep dark hole to rot. There was no way out until you summoned me." The demon brushed bits of cement from its face. "I owe you one, kid. So when you let me out of this trap, I won't kill you and we'll call it even."

"No."

"No?"

"No. I want something from you first."

The demon sighed and rolled its eyes. "That's what they all say. Everybody wants something. Thing is, demons don't do tricks on command. We make deals. You wanna sell your soul, kid?"

Sam blinked and took an involuntary step backwards. "What? No. I want to know what's going on. Why are you following me? Why did you say I was special?"

The demon snorted. "Why would I tell you?"

"Because I've got you in a trap!" Sam pointed to the chalk outline. "You can't get out until I let you out."

"Can't I?" The demon cocked its head, then lifted one food and stomped. Hard. The ground shook and a tiny crack appeared in the concrete near its toe. It was small, spiderweb-thin, but it would be enough to break the chalk line if it got longer. Sam skipped backwards and the demon smiled. "It might take a little while, but I can get out of this little drawing on my own."

Sam reached for the bucket of holy water. The demon sniggered. "You think that's gonna bother me, after being worked over by your dad?"'

Sam paused. "My dad?"

"What, did you think he shoved me in his trunk and drove off to an abandoned building to have a nice, civil chat? Do your worst, kid. It's nothing compared to what your dad already did."

Sam sucked in a deep breath, marched forward, and dumped the entire bucket of holy water over the demon's head. The creature hissed in pain and steam rose from its body. It staggered, bent forward, and coughed. Sam skipped back, careful to stay out of this thing's reach.

"Whew! Never get used to that." The demon shook its head, then paused as something caught its eye. A slow grin spread across the dead face, and then the demon laughed. It raised its chin in triumph and stepped across the edge of the trap.

 _What? No_! Sam's eyes searched the floor, and he saw that the water from the bucket had washed away some of the chalk lines.

 _Stupid_! Sam didn't have time to be angry at himself, though. The demon sat stepping closer.

"Thanks again, kid." The demon loomed over Sam. Sam scrambled backwards, reaching for the bag of salt. The demon kicked the bag aside. Rough hands grabbed Sam by the shoulders and slammed him against the wall. "But after that little stunt, I don't think I owe you anymore."

"You can't hurt me!" Sam's feet kicked against the wall and his . "I'm special."

"Oh, I'm not going to kill you, but we've got a little while until Daddy comes back." The demon dragged a sharp fingernail across Sam's skin. "You know, it's really amazing how much skin you can peel off the human body before it becomes lethal." The demon held out its hand. A rusty old knife jumped out of a pile of tools in the corner and landed in the demon's grip.

"Put him down!" Bobby stood in the doorway of the shed, shotgun pointed at the demon's chest.

"Make me!" The demon stepped back, but Sam felt an invisible hand grip him tight. It lifted him off the ground, away from the wall, and threw him across the room. Sam felt his head and shoulders collide with the roof.

Bobby started chanting in Latin, and Sam recognized some words from the exorcism. The demon started to shake, like it was having a seizure. Black smoke curled around the room, and the invisible hand released Sam. The concrete floor rose up to meet him, and Sam heard more than felt his head smack against the floor. For a moment, all he knew was pain. Then darkness crept into the edges of his vision.

"Sam, you idjit. What did I tell you about playing out in the shed?" Sam saw the fuzzy outline of Bobby's cap, felt a warm hand on his shoulder, and then there was nothing but darkness.

 **Uh-oh! John's not going to be to happy about this. What will happen when Sam wakes up?**

 **Please review!**


	17. Forgetting Knot

_A HUGE thanks to everyone who has reviewed, followed, and favorited. You guys are awesome._

* * *

 **16: Forgetting Knot**

Hospital rooms were always pale, cold places that seemed drained of both light and life. The furniture was hard and uncomfortable. The colors were muted and washed out. The smell of bleach clung to everything.

Every time Dean entered a hospital, he could feel the energy drain from him. It was easier to keep his spirits up in the dead of night, where at least he knew there was a party somewhere. The darkness didn't scare Dean. No, it was the muted lights of the hospital that made his knees tremble.

The hospital meant pain, more pain than could be dealt with in a motel with a first-aid kit. The hospital meant failure, a job gone wrong. The hospital meant waiting, with no monster to kill and no way to help.

Sam's face was nearly as white as the pillow he lay on. He was asleep, 'resting comfortably' the doctors said. The cut on his head had been stitched and cleaned, although a section of his hair had been shaved off on the process. Sammy wasn't going to be happy about that.

Dean allowed himself a small smile, but only for an instant. He curled his fist in the sheets, eyes never leaving his brother's face. "What were you thinking, Sammy?"

"He's going to be fine." Dr. Shay was talking to Dad on the other side of the room. "We already ran a scan on his head and there doesn't seem to be any severe injury beyond the concussion. He'll have nasty headache and need to avoid rigorous activity for several weeks, but he should recover well. We'll give him a sling for the shoulder before he goes home. I want him to stay overnight for observation, but I expect he'll be able to leave in the morning."

Dad nodded politely, thanked the doctor quietly, and waited until the man was well out the door before rounding on Bobby. The old scrapper was standing by in the corner, a coffee in each hand. He hadn't bothered to wash off the gun powder or the blood.

 _Sam's blood_.

Dad had contained his rage when talking to the doctor. Now that the civilians were out of the room, he didn't bother holding back. "How could you let this happen, Singer?"

Bobby bristled, and set the coffee to one side lest it get caught in the crossfire. "Don't you try to put this on me."

"You were responsible for him!"

"I can't watch that kid twenty-four seven, John! A man's gotta take a bathroom break now and again, and that's all the time Sam would have needed to grab what he wanted and leave. This ain't my fault."

Sparks flared between the two hunters, and Dean leaned closer to Sam protectively. You never knew what might get caught in the crossfire.

"Are you implying that this is my fault?" Dad's shoulders were squared, fists clenched and ready for a fight.

"As you are so fond of telling me, I'm not their father. You are." Bobby had his hands on his hips, facing Dad's glare with one of his own. "There's a lot more to being a parent than keeping the evil spirits away."

"You don't know anything about being a parent, Singer! You don't have any idea what it's like to live on the road with those _things_ dogging our every step. Don't you sit up there on your high horse and judge me."

"Your son stole a book on demonology and summoned one of the dang things! You're damn lucky he came to my house to do it! I'm still amaze he got the spell right on the firs try." Bobby looked over at Sam and shook his head, impressed.

Dad's eyes narrowed. "What are you implying about my son, Singer?"

"Implying?" Bobby attention snapped back to John. "I ain't implying nothin'. You've got a smart kid there, and he's stubborn and headstrong to boot. You've got to reason with him-"

"I tried that!" Now it was Dad's turn to look at Sam, and Dean saw, behind the anger, a hint of fear.

"Maybe you should let him stay with me for a little while," Bobby offered.

"I'm not letting him near your library again." Dad jabbed a finger at Bobby's chest.

Bobby crossed his arms. "This is not my fault! You can't handle Sam, and you know it!"

"Hey!" Dean snapped, drawing the glares of both men toward himself. He rose from his chair, grabbed an elbow in each hand, and pushed both men toward the door. "You need to take his outside. The doctor said Sam's needs sleep. He doesn't need you yelling."

A muscle in Dad's jaw twitched, but he turned and stalked out of the room. Bobby grimaced, and followed. Dean dropped back into his chair and looked down at his little brother.

Sam was staring back at him, eyes squinting under the bright lights. "Dean? Am I in trouble?"

Dean snorted, fighting the urge to laugh and cry at the same time. "Trouble? Sammy, after the stunt you pulled, you're going to be grounded for a month."

"Oh." Sam made a face, and his eyes flicked around the room, checking for medical staff before he asked, "Did Bobby get it?"

"Bobby exorcised it. It's long gone." Dean and Dad hadn't been to Bobby's place yet, they had come straight to the hospital. But Dean was pretty sure that he would be burying a body tonight. "Sam, you know that was really stupid, right? What were you thinking?"

Sam glared at his knees and shrugged. "I dunno."

Dean's stomach clenched as he remembered the awful moment when he had realized that Sam was gone. "Why'd you go off without me, huh? You know I got your back, right?"

Sam leaned back on his pillow with a sigh. "Yeah, I know."

"You better," Dean said fiercely. "So what made you think you could take on the armies of hell all on your own?"

"It wasn't an army, just one demon."

 _One too many_. "Seriously, Sammy, you had to know that you couldn't handle it by yourself. Why didn't you ask me for help?"

"You would have told Dad, and Dad would have stopped us."

"Would not."

"Would too, and you know it."

Dean grimaced, but he couldn't really argue the point. "Well, at least you did the job right. Got yourself an overnight stay. Which means free food!" Dean reached for the menu laid out by Sam's bed and flipped it open. "You're a growing boy, you can convince the nurse you need two burgers, right?"

o0o

John stood in the doorway of the hospital room, watching his sons. Dean sat by Sam's bed. He had spent the night here, giving up a chance of a bed at Bobby's to be with his brother. Now, they were fighting over Sam's breakfast tray. The hospital would only provide food for the patient in the bed, but Dean was a growing boy in need of three meals a day and more. He had tried to lay claim to Sam's bacon, but Sam defended by throwing his wounded shoulder between his brother and the food. Dean didn't dare rough-house while Sam was hurt, and settled back with a pout, looking mournfully at the yogurt cup Sam had offered instead. He took one bite, made a face, and tossed the entire thing in the trash.

"Hey, that's my breakfast!"

"You said I could have it!"

"Yeah, well, if you didn't want it maybe I was gonna eat it."

"You didn't want it, that stuff tasted like chalk mixed with cough syrup." Dean's fingers snuck closer to Sam's plate and the remaining piece of bacon.

"Hey!" Sam cried, but it was too late. The bacon vanished into Dean's mouth, irretrievable.

"Alright, boys. We're about ready to head out. Dean." John met Dean's eyes, and nodded toward the door. Dean frowned, cast Sam a sideways glance, and then scooted out of the room.

Sam looked up at his father, eyes wide in the expression that melted the heart of nearly every teacher and babysitter he had ever met. The boy was too used to getting his way, too determined to do things on his own. That would have to stop. Now.

"Sam, this can't happen again."

Sam's jew clenched and his eyes narrowed, losing the sweet and innocent look in an instant. How could such softness and such anger both inhabit the same small body?

"This is twice now that you've disobeyed my orders, Sam. Twice now that you've meddled with dark magic you have no business using. Twice now you've gotten yourself into real danger. You could have gotten yourself killed!"

"I'm sorry, ok!" Sam's words were apologetic but his expression was still stubborn. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to be safe!"

"Yeah. That's why you bring me along to every hunt that isn't on a school night. That's sooo safe, Dad." Sam rolled his eyes.

John could feel himself bristling. "Learning to hunt means that you can defend yourself if the worst happens. I'm trying to keep you alive, Sam."

"I don't want to live like that, Dad! I can't keep doing this! I don't want to move anymore, I don't want to hunt anymore."

"You don't have a choice! They will come for you no matter where you are, Sam. Mr. Finklestein is proof of that."

"So why don't we hunt demons?" Sam glared at his father. "Why do we stop to deal with every evil spirit, black dog, and other monster you find?"

"I do hunt demons, Sam. I research and I follow demon signs whenever I come across them. But demons are rare and hard to find. There's normally only one or two known possessions a year."

"It wasn't that hard to summon one. We could do it again."

"No."

Sam threw up his hands. "Why not?! I know what went wrong now and it won't happen again. Besides, if you're there this time-"

"You're not ready for that yet, Sam."

"Why not?" Sam's glare sharpened as he waited for an answer. John had been down this path with Sam before. The boy could as 'why' until the world stopped turning and still never be satisfied with the answers.

"Because I said so! If this were as simple as summoning a demon, I would have dealt with it a long time ago. You are not old enough to understand this. This is a long hunt, Sam. It takes patience and persistence, two things you don't have. These things have secrets I still need to uncover, they have power that you can't begin to understand, and we still have no way to kill them."

"So we find a way!"

"I'm working on that." John had chased down more dead ends looking for a way to kill a demon than any other hunter alive. Some thought he was a fool. But he still had a few leads to follow. Someday, he would find a way.

"On what?"

"That's a secret."

Sam crossed his arms, eyes narrowed. "Why won't you tell me?"

There is was again. Always, Sam wanted to know 'why.'

Why not tell his son? Because if a demon ever possessed him, they would learn John's secrets. Because if a demon asked the right questions, Sam might let the information slip. Because two can't keep a secret, and this had to stay a secret.

"Sam, this is not a debate. You will know what you need to know when you need to know it."

"Is everything ok in here?" A woman's voice cut across their conversation, and John turned to see the Sheriff's deputy who had found Sam the first time standing in the doorway. She did not look happy with John's tone of voice. "I need to get a statement from Sam, Mr. Winchester. About what happened."

"We were just one our way out, Deputy."

Deputy Mills stood her ground. "It won't take long. But I'm afraid I do have to insist on speaking with Sam in private before he leaves."

John grimaced, but he didn't argue. The Deputy had her orders and the ability to enforce them. Making a scene would just make things look worse. With one last look at Sam, John left the room.

John leaned against the wall and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could see another disaster on the horizon. Sam wasn't going to stop asking questions or follow orders the way Dean did. Once had had an idea in his head, he didn't let it go.

If only where was a way to undo these past few days.

Maybe there was. After all, this had all started with a spell. John had taken the spell from Sam, had crumpled it up, but hadn't thrown it away. It was still in his pocket.

John pulled out the battered piece of notebook paper and flattened it out. The ingredients were simple enough. It wouldn't be that hard to make a few changes.

o0o

Bobby knew as soon as the Winchesters walked through the front door that things were not good. Sam practically stomped into the room, even though the sound of the slamming door made him wince. John followed, a dark expression on his face. Dean trailed after them, a worried crease in his forehead and clearly no idea how to fix things.

The tension in the air did not lessen as the day wore. Sam picked at his baloney sandwich and glared while John helped Bobby clear away any books related to demons into a locked cabinet. Dean hovered, fetching water and pain killers for Sam. But none of his jokes could bring a real smile to either his brother or his father's face.

After lunch, John buried his nose in a book and Sam settled on the couch for a nap. Bobby picked up a shovel and tossed it at Dean. "Come one, we've got work to do."

"Aw, man!" Dean shook his head, as if he should have known this was coming, but he didn't look at all displeased. He needed a reason to get out of this house.

Bobby took Dean out behind the old shed and settled in with a beer to watch the teen dig.

"Seriously, Bobby, you're not even gonna help?"

"I'm old. I've got a bad back. Besides, you need someone on the lookout in case this corpse decides it ain't all the way dead." Bobby nudged the witch's dead body with his toe.

"You sure no one will find the body out here?" Dean asked, grunting as he hefted another shovelful of dirt.

"Pretty sure." Bobby's eyes drifted to the patch of grass near the back corner of the shed. He wasn't sure of the exact spot anymore, but his father's bones were not too far from here. This was a fitting place to bury an evil thing.

When the hole was nearly as deep as Dean was tall, Bobby announced, "That ought to do."

"Good!" Dean threw the shovel onto the ground and hauled himself out of the hole. Dean grasped the corpse by the ankles, Bobby lifted the shoulders, and they dumped the body unceremoniously into the fresh pit. A bit of gasoline and salt, and Dean insisted on lighting the matches. He gave a satisfied nod as fire blossomed below his feet.

"Good riddance."

Bobby handed Dean a soda. "So how are you doin' with all of this?"

Dean shrugged and popped the top off his soda. "What do you mean, Bobby? Sam's the one who got hurt."

"You nearly lost your brother twice. You've seen a demon up-close for the first time. I know a lot of hunters who would be curled up under the bed inside a ring of salt after that."

"I'm not gonna lie, Bobby. Demons scare me. But Dad knows what he's doing. He'll get us through. Besides-I" Dean paused, fiddling with the soda bottle. "It's all my fault, you know. I'm the one who slipped up. I said some things I shouldn't have and Sam overheard me. That was why he took off the first time. Everything that happened after that-it's on me."

"Sam did not run away because of you, Dean." No matter what had happened between the brothers, Bobby was sure that it would never be Dean who drove Sam away.

"No, it was me. I had a bad day and-" Dean stopped and shook his head. "I'm not gonna go there again, Bobby. It gets rough sometimes, but it's worth it."

"All of it?" Bobby asked. He had an inkling how hard it could be to live in the Winchester household some days.

Dean nodded firmly. "All of it."

There was nothing else to say.

"Well, the corpse has burned long enough to be purified." Bobby tossed the shovel back at Dean. "Cover it up."

"But I did all the digging!"

"You're young, you can handle it."

"What do you do when I'm not around?" Dean grumbled, bending to put his shoulder into the work.

"I use the backhoe."

Dean's head jerked up and around. "What?"

"She's busted right now, though. Needs a new belt. You can help me with the repair after we get done with this." Bobby gestured at the hole, took one final pull on his beer, and tossed the bottle away.

"Maybe we should have done that first!"

"Nah, the witch was starting to stink, and that Deputy might get it into her head to come 'round to check on Sam."

Dean grunted, hefting a shovel full of dirt. "Nosy."

"Ah, she means well." Bobby sighed and fetched another shovel. Not because he was taking pity on Dean, but because it was cold out and he wanted to speed things up to get back to the warm house.

Sam was still asleep when they returned, curled up like a cat in the ray of sun that spilled through the window. John sat at Bobby's desk, his head bent over an old bit of notebook paper. Half of the cabinets were opened and a line of spell ingredients was assembled in a row in front of John. He had taken the calendar from the wall and was cutting out a date.

"What are you doing?" Bobby had a strange feeling that it wasn't going to be good.

"I'm fixing this." John clipped the date square and dropped it into the bit of cloth lying in front of him. He bundled together a set of herbs, tying them around the cut-out date.

Bobby picked up the calendar. The date John had cut out was back in August. By Bobby's best guess, it was a few days before the Winchesters had arrived in La Plata, Missouri.

"What do you think you are doing that can 'fix' this?" Bobby asked again, although he had a pretty good idea. "You can't act like this never happened."

John looked up, meeting Bobby's gaze without flinching. "Yes, Bobby. I can." He wrapped up the cloth and tied a knot around it, finishing the hex bag.

"Dad?" Dean stood frozen in the doorway, staring at his father and the hex bag in his hand. His eyes flicked to Sam's sleeping form, then back to his father. "Dad, what's going on?"

John crossed the room to put a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Sam's too young to deal with this, Dean. It's better if he doesn't know. I've altered the spell he used on us. I can make all of this go away."

"Dad-" Dean stared at his father, and Bobby wasn't sure if the boy wanted to step back in disgust or slug the man. "Sammy will be ok. We can work this out."

"You saw, him, Dean. This just keeps getting worse. Sam can't handle the truth."

"He has a right to know what's happened in his own life!" Bobby growled. "He has a right to know what's coming for him."

"No." John's tone was sharp and unbending. "He's just a child. I made a mistake telling him, and I am going to fix it."

"John, you can't-"

"He's my son, Bobby! My son, my decision."

"You're taking away three whole months! If you want Sam not to find out about demons, you only have to go back three days!" If he snatched the hex-bag from John's hands, could he burn it before John caught him?

It didn't matter. The other hunter would just make a new one.

John shook his head. "No, there will be too many questions. I have to go back to when all of this started. This way, Sam will never even know that he tried to run away."

Bobby desperately wanted to tear the ball cap off his head and slap John Winchester with it, but there was no point. No one could talk sense into a Winchester when he set his mind to something.

John had already crossed the room. He knelt by the couch as Dean watched, paralyzed, from the kitchen. John slipped the hex bag underneath Sam's pillow and set about clearing away the evidence.

o0o

The world was sharp. His head throbbed, and every sound made the throbbing worse. Light stabbed even through his closed eyes. Sam shifted, and pain shot through his shoulder. Sam groaned, and forced his eyes open.

Dean's face hovered an inch from his nose. Dean's brows were furrowed, and his voice was hoarse with concern. "Sammy? You ok?"

"Unh-" Sam grumbled, not sure of the answer yet. He shifted again, this time more carefully, and Dean's hand on his back helped guide him to a sitting position. The world swam and his stomach churned.

"Am I sick?"

"Nah, but you do have a pretty nasty concussion. You might be nauseous for a few days." Dean grimaced and reached for the trashcan. "You're not gonna throw up, are you?"

"Um—don't think so." Sam placed a hand on his stomach and waited for it to settle before looking around. He knew this room, littered with books, covered in dust, with light pouring through the tall windows. "Is this Bobby's house?"

"You don't recognize my house?" Bobby's face appeared above Dean's shoulder, scowling. His eyes flicked across the room. Sam saw Dad there, watching carefully.

"No, I do. I just—I thought we were—we were on the road? In Arkansas." Sam put his hand on his head, and felt the soft gauze bandage there. "What happened?"

Sam looked to Dean, Dean looked to Dad. Bobby turned his back on them, headed for the kitchen.

"We had a rough time with an evil spirit," Dad said. "How's your head?"

"An evil spirit?" Sam frowned, trying to process this. His head ached, and his thoughts didn't want to connect. "I thought we were after a witch?"

"You hit your head pretty hard. The doctor said you might have a hard time remembering recent events." Dad's tone was awfully calm, but if things had been bad enough to go to the doctor...shouldn't Dad be a little more freaked out?

Everyone was a bit too calm, really. As if there were something they were all being very careful not to say.

"Doctor?" Sam rubbed his head. "I don't remember going to the doctor."

"Yeah, well." Dean trapped Sam's hand so he couldn't fiddle with the bandage. "You were pretty messed up. They shoved you in a tube and ran all kinds of fancy head scans. But they said you'll be ok, you just might not remember some stuff."

Traumatic brain injury causes memory loss. Sam had learned that in school. So at least he remembered something. Just not yesterday, apparently. Sam turned to look out the window. The trees on Bobby's property were bare, spiky branches reaching into a slate-gray sky. Sam blinked, and placed his hand on the window. It was cold to the touch.

"Some stuff." Sam repeated Dean's words. "What happened to summer?"

"Summer?" Dean asked. In the kitchen, Bobby snorted. Dad gave him a pointed glare, and Bobby settled back into silence.

What was going on here? Sam tried to get his mind to pull these odd observations together into a coherent thought, but his brain was as slow as molasses. Everything hurt.

"I thought—it was—we were riding in the car and it was summer break still." Sam frowned, trying to push past the memory of a hot August day in the back seat with Dean singing along to the radio and Dad talking about their last hunt before school would start again. Everything after that felt like static. "How long—what day is it?"

"Almost Thanksgiving." Bobby held out a glass of water for Sam and watched as Sam took a sip. He looked like he'd bitten into something sour and couldn't quite figure how to spit it back out.

"You think you can make it to a car without throwing up?" Dean had a hand on Sam's elbow to help him up. "You nearly nailed my shoes yesterday, man. I do not want a repeat performance."

The world swam with every move Sam made. There was no doubt he had a bad concussion. He started to nod, then thought better of it. "Thanksgiving? Really?"

"Yep." Dean kept his shoulder securely under Sam's arm as they moved. "Don't worry, Sammy. You didn't miss much."

Three months of his life, gone. Sam felt nauseous again, but he didn't think it was because of his head. "What about school? I'm way behind!"

"With that giant brain of yours, I think you can catch up." Dean deposited Sam in a chair and patted his shoulder.

"Not for a few weeks," Dad said.

Sam stared at his father in dismay. "What?"

"Doctor's orders. No school for at least a week. No hunting for at least a month. You are on light duty until further notice."

"Oh." By the time he was better, it would be Christmas break. "I'll miss the entire semester of school!"

"Dude! You get to eat candy and watch football all day! You get the longest holiday break ever! Take the win." Dean's voice was a little too cheerful, the way it got when he was really upset and trying not to show it. But the hunt was over. What was there to be upset about? "You're gonna be ok, Sammy."

Dean sounded more like he was trying to reassure himself than anyone else.

Bobby's stood between them and the door, arms crossed. "John, you really think it's a good idea to move Sam so soon after his _serious_ concussion?"

"He can rest in the back seat as well as anywhere else. I'm his father. I make the decisions here." Dad held Bobby's glare until the other hunter bowed his head and stepped aside.

Sam frowned. Something else had happened here. Something—he tried to fetch a memory, but all he got was static.

"Thanks, Bobby." Dean stopped to hold out his hand to their old friend. "Thanks for everything."

Bobby ignored Dean's hand, wrapping any arm around his shoulder instead. The level of emotion in the room was going off the charts.

Another something that seemed..odd. Sam frowned, chasing the fragment of a thought, but then it was gone.

After releasing Dean, Bobby pulled Sam into a hug too. "You remember-you call me if you ever need help."

"Yeah, Bobby, I know." Sam let Dean lead him out the door and help him settle in the back seat. They drove away from Singer Salvage. On to the next town, the next motel, the next hunt.

It was just another day in the life of the Winchester family.

* * *

 **Author's note: I just want to make it clear that I do not agree with John's decision here. Everyone has a right to make their own choices, and it is not ok to hide information from someone in order to control them (even if it is to keep them safe). But the choice seemed very 'in character' for John.**

 **What did you think of the story?**

 **Please review!**


	18. Epilogue: Remember When?

**Epilogue: Remember When…?**

Over the course of their lifetime spent on the road, Sam and Dean had both learned to appreciate the small, simple pleasures of life. For Dean, it was food, alcohol, and sex. Things he could get easily on a daily basis despite their wayward lifestyle. For Sam, it was the small pleasures of normal life, like a home cooked meal or the chance to pet a dog. These were harder to find.

Right now, both brothers were content. Dean had his feet propped up on Jody's coffee table, an empty beer bottle by his feet and another in his hand, and a bowl of chips in his lap. Sam leaned back into the soft cushions of the couch, savoring the rare comfort. Motel rooms did not have couches. It was a rare luxury to lean back and stretch out on soft cushions.

It was also a rare luxury to kick back and share an evening with a friend.

Jody emerged from the kitchen with a refill bag of chips and another beer, both of which she handed to Sam. He smiled.

"Thanks, Jody."

They weren't here about a hunt, or because someone needed help. They had simply been passing through, and Jody happened to have the night off. So here they were, sitting around the living room trading stories.

First, they had reminisced about Bobby, but now the talk had meandered to other topics.

"Man, I will never forget the first time that we met Pastor Jim. He was the other hunter who used to look after us a lot." Dean smiled at the memory. "We were out on a hunt, and I didn't even know he was a pastor yet. He'd been out in the woods tracking something, and was covered in mud. He must have fallen down because his face was plastered with it. He came out of the shadows to greet Dad, and I screamed so loud! Of course, I was only six."

Sam snorted. He had heard that story before, but he had been far too young to remember the incident.

Jody laughed, then turned to Sam. "Well, I will never forget the day I met you."

Sam smiled. "Yeah, busting us with our fake FBI badges when Bobby answered your call, that was a first for us."

"Oh yeah." Jody shook her head. "No, I'm talking about when you were a kid. I caught you sneaking around Bobby's place while he was away."

Sam's brows crinkled. "What? I'm pretty sure we never met before Death came to Sioux Falls."

"Oh, yes we did. You kicked me in the eye. It was my first arrest and my first on-duty injury with the Sheriff's office. Not something you forget."

"I kicked you in the eye?" Sam's confusion deepened. "I think I would remember something like that. Maybe it was someone else?"

"Oh, it was you. Your father was so mad when he came to get you."

Sam shook his head. "No, Jody, I'm sure nothing like that ever happened. I would remember something like that." Sam looked to Dean for confirmation.

Dean's face had an odd, closed expression. "Well, you did lose a chunk of memory after that bad concussion. You were—what, thirteen? We brought you to Bobby's to recover."

That, Sam did remember. It had been one of the strangest moments of his young life, to wake up one day in a different place and a different season. "Yeah. I remember that." Sam looked up at Jody. "I really kicked you in the face?"

"Yes." Jody gave an emphatic nod.

"Why?"

"Because you didn't want to get caught by the law!" Dean declared. "

Sam stared at Jody. "How come you never mentioned it before?"

"You were a kid. I never saw you again until that day at the diner. Besides, it took me a little while to figure out that the same kid who kicked me in the face was you. But I figure, you saved my life and half the town, so no hard feelings."

Sam opened his mouth to ask another question, but Dean cut in. "Oh, Jody, you should hear about the first time Dad tried to teach Sammy the basics of breaking and entering. We were at our friend Caleb's and Sam was supposed to pick the lock on the front door-"

o0o

There was a conversation brewing. Dean knew it before Sam even opened his mouth. He had been expecting it every since Jody brought up her first encounter with Sam. Dean hadn't realized that she was the deputy involved all those years ago until today. Sam had let him change the subject while they were at Jody's, but now that they were back on the road, he was working up to asking a question.

At night, on the road, just the two of them in the Impala. It was Sam's favorite time to talk. Probably because he knew that Dean had no escape route, aside from cranking up the music.

"Dean, what really happened?"

There it was.

"I've had concussions before, and I know that what happens before your knock your head really bad can get a bit fuzzy, but I've never lost three months." Sam licked his lips and frowned. "I've lost memory to a concussion before, and I've lost memory because of something supernatural, and they feel different." Sam paused, drawing in a deep breath. "What happened when I was thirteen—that wasn't a concussion."

"No it wasn't." Dean remembered the sick feeling he had had watching his father put that hex bag under Sam's pillow. At the time, he had known it was a line that should not be crossed. Then came Ben and Lisa. Sam's memories of the cage. Gadreel, insisting that Sam not know he was an angel's vessel. Dean had done far worse than his father ever did.

"So what really happened?" Sam was watching his brother closely, waiting.

Dean grimaced. "You're not gonna like it." Before Sam could protest, Dean continued, "It all started with this witch Dad hunted down in Missouri..."


End file.
